


Madhouse

by whichclothes



Series: Madhouse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 86,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle with Wolfram & Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter: **1/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

_   
**Madhouse (1 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[  
____spacer____](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ck7xy/)  
  
---  
  
**  
MADHOUSE  
**

**  
One  
**

 

In the beginning, there was pain. Terrible, ripping pain, as if every molecule of his body had been torn apart. He wondered if it was the dragon or something else, and he waited to dust.

But he didn’t dust.

So for a time he stayed very still, wondering whose heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears, whose pulse he felt against his skin.

Then he realized that the heartbeat and pulse were his own.

He opened his eyes to find himself crouched in the grass, not far from a circle of cement with a statue of a bloke on a horse. The sun shone brightly from a robin’s-egg sky, but Spike did not burn. He was naked, though, and so weak that when he tried to get to his feet he only made it as far as his knees before he wobbled and fell. Groaning softly, he rolled onto his side.

A small crowd of people stood around, leaving a healthy distance between him and themselves. There were perhaps a dozen of them, men and women. The men wore wide-shouldered suits and patterned ties and fedoras. The women were in dresses of printed cotton, with hats over waved hair. Spike tried to ask a question about where he was and what the bloody hell was going on, but he couldn’t manage more than a few mumbled, incoherent consonants.

“He’s drunk!” announced a fat man with graying hair. “He’s drunk out of his mind.”

But the woman next to him frowned. “No, I think he’s injured, the poor dear.”

She took a step closer to Spike, but the man held her back. “Stay away, Cora. He could be dangerous.”

Spike didn’t feel dangerous. Just feeble and very confused.

And then there was a slight rustle in the crowd and the people parted, and two men in police uniforms approached him. They were watching him warily, with their billy clubs in hand. One of them looked like he was about 18 years old, and he was goggling at the sight before him. The other was short and trim, with a businesslike air about him. “You there,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sunbathing,” Spike tried to say. “Berk.” But it was fairly unintelligible, which was likely a good thing.

The policemen came closer. “Who are you? Where is your clothing?” asked the one in charge.

That was a good question, Spike thought. But he’d much rather know where he was.

Now they were bending over him, the short one slightly closer than the boy, and they were frowning. “Are you hurt?” the short one asked.

“I don’t know,” Spike tried to say, but then everything grayed to black.

 

***

 

When he woke up the next time, it was obvious where he was—in hospital. The two cops were standing beside his bed. So was a doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, and two nurses, both wearing old-fashioned starched white nurses’ dresses, with those ridiculous little caps pinned to their hair. They were all staring down at him as if he were a particularly interesting specimen in a jar, and the looks on their faces and all the white reminded him uncomfortably of Maggie Walsh and he moaned.

“Ah,” said the doctor. “You’re awake.”

Spike wasn’t exactly certain that was true. Perhaps he was asleep and this was a dream. Perhaps he’d got himself rat-arsed on the pouf’s 21-year-old Bushmills, and he was now lying on his back on the conference room table, hallucinating, and soon Lorne would come and carry him up to the penthouse and tuck him into Angel’s couch and sing him into a proper, restful sleep.

The doctor turned to the policemen. “Well, it looks like maybe he’s had a nasty fall. He has quite a bit of bruising, some lacerations here and there. Nothing broken, but I daresay he might have had a concussion.”

“But he was in the town square,” said the baby policeman. “There’s nothing to fall from there. Except maybe the top of the gazebo, or the statue of the General, but he wasn’t very near either of those.”

The other officer rolled his eyes. “He didn’t fall there, Nelson. He must have fallen somewhere else, and then somebody dumped him in the square. Without his clothing.”

“But who is he?” asked one of the nurses.

“Perhaps he’s a mobster,” said the other. “They might do something like that, pushing a man off a building, maybe, and then taking him away and leaving him for dead. Maybe he’s an informer. He has very strange hair.”

The doctor smiled. “You need to stop reading those novels, Nurse MacKinnon. There are no mobsters here. Why don’t we just ask him who he is. Young man?”

Everybody looked at Spike expectantly. “I’m…. My name’s Spike.”

“All right, Mr. Spike,” the doctor said.

“No, just Spike. It’s…it’s a nickname.” Nurse MacKinnon nodded and nudged her colleague, as if this confirmed her theory.

“What’s your real name, please?” asked the doctor.

Spike sighed. “Pratt. William Pratt.” His throat felt dry as the Sahara. He suddenly realized that he was hungry as well.

The short policeman was taking notes on a pad of paper. He said, “Where are you from, Mr. Pratt?”

“London.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Been in the States for some time. Most recently, LA.”

“If you’ll give us your family’s information, we’ll contact them for you.”

Spike’s jaw clenched for a moment. “There’s nobody to contact.”

The doctor and the officer exchanged looks. Then the officer narrowed his eyes a bit. “What happened to you, Mr. Pratt? How did you end up in the town square in…this condition?”

“’M not sure. There was a fight, and…where the bloody hell _am_ I?” He knew he wasn’t going to like whatever answer they gave him.

“Canton, Illinois.”

Well, all right. That didn’t sound too awful. Except he was fairly certain even the fair residents of Canton weren’t 80 years out of date in their fashions. And then there was the entire troubling matter of Spike being alive, but he reckoned he could sort that out later. “What’s the date?”

“May 17.”

He winced before he asked the rest. “Year?”

There was another exchange of glances. “It’s 1933,” said the doctor.

“Bloody _hell_!”

The short cop bent more closely over him. “See here, Mr. Pratt. You were discovered unclothed in our town square. I could arrest you right now for public indecency, disturbing the peace—”

“Loitering,” Officer Nelson interrupted.

His colleague shot him a dirty look, then glared at Spike again. “You have no identification, you claim no friends or family, and you don’t even seem to know where you are or when. Tell us immediately who you are and how you got here, and why! And the truth, now. No funny business.”

Spike took a very long breath in, and then let it out. It hurt. “I’m a vampire with a soul. Last I knew, it was 2004 and I was helping to fight an evil demon law firm in Los Angeles. I’ve no sodding idea how I got here.”

Everybody else in the room raised their eyebrows except the cop. “I said no funny business, mister!”

“’M not taking the piss. It’s the truth.”

Officer Nelson said, “If you’re a vampire, where are your fangs? And how come you were outside in the sun?”

“I forgot that bit. When I was brought here, I seem to have been turned into a real boy as well.”

The older officer’s face turned red. “See here,” he began, but then the doctor tapped his shoulder.

“Hang on, Henry,” the doctor said. He bent down and looked very seriously into Spike’s eyes. “Is that what you truly believe, William?”

“It’s Spike, Doc, and yes.”

Everybody took a step backward as if they’d just discovered he had something contagious. The doctor looked at Officer Henry. “I’ll put a call in to Bartonville,” he said.

 The policeman nodded and then, very quickly, everyone left except Nurse MacKinnon. Spike tried to ask her some questions, but she only hushed him, and he felt too knackered to argue. She brought him a glass of water, though, and helped him drink it, and that was lovely. Then she produced two small white pills. “Swallow these, William. They’ll help.”

Spike was beginning to wonder whether anything would help at this point, but he stuck out his tongue obediently. The medicine tasted bitter and stuck in his throat, but the nurse gave him some more water. She pulled the blankets snug around him. “Don’t worry, William. You’ll be taken care of. Now get some sleep.”

And within a few minutes, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he did fall fast asleep.

 

***

 

He was eating unidentifiable meat and gluey potatoes. If he was going to be eating human food once again, he wished it were something nicer. But it was filling his stomach, at least, and that was good. He’d only been given a spoon to eat with, though. When he asked for a knife and fork, Nurse MacKinnon pointed out that she’d already cut his meat for him and she patted him on the head in a way that would have had him tearing her throat out a short time ago. Now he only sighed and ate.

As he chewed, he considered whether there was anyone he could contact for help. Who had he known in 1933? Well, Dru of course, but she would be somewhere in Europe right now. Milan, maybe, or Berlin. He wasn’t certain which. And in any case Dru wasn’t generally the most helpful sort. Was his own vampire self with her now? Even if he was, and if Spike could somehow contact them, he knew he’d get no assistance from his former self. Spike from the 1930s would, at best, laugh at his current predicament.

There was Angel.

Angel was somewhere in the States at this time, and might possibly pull himself out of his massive brooding just enough to help his progeny. Spike was, after all, human at the moment. But Spike had no idea where his grandsire had been at this point. Perhaps once he got out of hospital he’d try to find him.

Spike was thinking these thoughts, and eating, and marveling at the way the warm sunlight shone in through the window and bathed his face and arms, when the door swung open. The doctor strode in, and behind him was a man in a suit. Spike nearly choked on his food when he saw the man’s face.

“Rupert!”

The startled doctor turned to an equally surprised Giles and asked. “Is he one of your patients?”

Giles shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen this man before.”

Spike pushed away the wheeled table that held his dinner tray. “Of course you have.” But then it occurred to him that maybe his appearance had changed with whatever mojo had sent him back in time and made him human. He hadn’t had the chance to look in a mirror since he’d arrived. “’T’s me, Watcher. Spike. William the Bloody.”

Giles’s eyes widened. Then he seemed to collect himself and he approached the bed. “William the Bloody?” he said.

“You know who I am, Rupert. You can cut the act. Just…let’s get out of here, yeah? Take me home.”

“And where would that be?” Giles asked.

“You know bloody well—” Oh. Perhaps this was some test to see if he were the genuine article. “The year 2004. California. Although I’d thought you’d scurried back to Londontown. You and the rest of the Scoobies.”

“The Scoobies? What are they?”

Spike huffed impatiently. “The Slayer. The Witch. Donut Boy. The demon—no, that’s right. I heard she bought it in Sunnyhell.”

Giles was staring very intently at him. “Are you a…a Scooby?”

“Of course not! I fought with that lot when I had the chip in my head—”

“The chip?”

“The bloody chip! The bit of plastic those government wankers used to control me.” Spike was getting more than a bit impatient with the man’s feigned ignorance.

But Giles straightened and turned to the doctor. “Very well, Dr. Madison. I’ve heard quite enough. I believe your diagnosis is correct. And you say he has no family about?”

“None that he’ll claim. He’s sort of an enigma. The police have asked around in neighboring towns, but nobody’s heard of him before, and he doesn’t fit the description of any missing persons. Maybe he’s down from Chicago. You don’t find accents like his much around here, you know. Present company excepted, of course.”

Giles frowned. “My accent is hardly like his.” He shook his head slightly. “Very well, then. I’d like to get back before dark. Let’s get him in the car, shall we?”

Spike tried to hide his sigh of relief. He was being sprung.

Dr. Madison fetched an orderly with a wheelchair. The orderly helped Spike into the chair. He could have got in himself—could probably have walked just fine as well—but the orderly was large and insistent, so Spike sat, wishing he had something to wear besides the ridiculous hospital gown. Giles and Dr. Madison walked down the hall, with Spike and the orderly close behind. Spike paid little attention to his surroundings. He just wanted out.

A monster of a car was parked just outside the hospital doors. It was black and long, with wide fenders and a tall, thin grille. It reminded him of a Studebaker President, but that wasn’t quite right. In fact, he couldn’t place the make at all, which was a bit troubling. He was quite familiar with cars of this era.

But he didn’t have time to worry about it. He was wheeled to the car and the orderly stood him up. Before he was allowed in the backseat, however, the orderly grabbed his wrists and twisted them behind Spike’s back, and Giles locked a pair of cuffs onto them. Spike began to protest, but the orderly shackled his ankles as well. Spike was pushed into a seated position on the plush seat, and although he tried to kick his way free, the orderly attached the ankle chain to a metal bracket set into the car floor. It was not very comfortable.

“He’s all yours,” Dr. Madison said. “But the paperwork?”

“It couldn’t be completed on such short notice. Judge Rayne is on holiday. But he’ll be back on Monday and I’ll have somebody run the papers down then.”

“Okay.”

The men shook hands. Giles slammed Spike’s door and then walked around to the front. He slid into the driver’s seat, shut his door, and started up the engine.

As they made their way down the road, Spike wiggled, trying to get comfortable. “Oi. You didn’t have to truss me up like a Christmas turkey.”

“It’s standard operating procedure when transporting patients,” Giles said.

“Well, you can unchain me now.”

“You’ll be unchained when we reach our destination. Now, do be quiet. We’ll be there in thirty minutes or so.”

Spike squirmed again and huffed. “I know you fancy seeing me in bondage, Rupert, but—”

“You shall address me as Dr. Giles.”

Something in Giles’s voice sent a chill straight to Spike’s recently revived heart. Why was he keeping up the charade when it was only the two of them? Was someone listening in somehow? Spike swallowed. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“You shall see shortly. Now quiet, or I shall have to gag you.” He didn’t sound like he was joking.

So with great difficulty, Spike held his tongue. He tried to watch out the window, but his head was hurting and he wasn’t altogether certain he wasn’t going to be sick. The car jolted and bumped along. He’d forgotten how much smoother the ride was on modern vehicles. And then, just when he was realizing he was in rather urgent need of a loo for the first time in over a century, the car stopped.

Giles honked the horn and got out. A moment later, Spike’s door was yanked open. Giles was standing there and, next to him, another orderly. This one was twice as big as the last one. As Spike struggled pointlessly, the orderly unlatched Spike’s ankle hobble from the car bracket, pulled and shoved Spike into another wheelchair, and hurried behind Giles in the gathering darkness. They neared an enormous hulk of a building that resembled a fortress or a castle. Just before the orderly pushed Spike inside, Spike got a glimpse of the sign over the imposing double doors: ILLINOIS ASYLUM FOR THE INCURABLY INSANE_._

  
  
****

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/165690.html)

 

  
  



	2. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter: **2/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (2 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cpqdg/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Two  
**

 

The best hot chocolate in the world can be bought in Poland. It is as thick as a melted candy bar, so rich that when you leave the overheated café and step into a January night in Warsaw, you can feel the stuff in your belly, counteracting the bitter cold. In Sierra Leone the judges wear blood-red robes and heavy wigs, which must feel miserable in the tropical heat. In Nepal, children who are ten or eleven but look younger sit in piles of dust, crushing rocks to make gravel for building roads, hoping to earn the equivalent of a dollar or two a week.

Xander knew these things, just as he knew the smell of the tanneries in Fez, the way the mist rose off the Amazon at dawn in Tabatinga, and the sound of the ropes that tethered fishing boats in Marystown. He knew them the way he knew that you had to pay to use the WC in Budapest, either putting coins in a slot before you entered, or handing them to the round, blank-faced woman who hunkered inside the door, no doubt thinking arcane thoughts about the way Americans pissed. The way he could navigate the Underground, BART, the Metro, the El, the T. They were good things to know, useful tidbits of knowledge to be filed along with techniques for lying to authorities and killing Kranthip demons and sweet-talking potentially homicidal new Slayers.

Now, though. Now, what Xander knew was that he was home for the first time in…well, ever. He knew it wasn’t much, just a little ranch house with an outdated kitchen, no doubt identical to thousands of other houses built in the 1980s in California—and no matter how lovingly he repaired its small flaws and remodeled it bit by bit, it would never be worth much. But it was his. He owned it outright, having bought it at an auction using the money the Council had paid him over the years, and which he had had Willow ferret away for him. It had a decent-sized yard with an apple tree and some grapes, and he thought that maybe he’d have a pool put in soon. It had neighbors who were schoolteachers and cops and insurance salesmen, with kids who left their bikes on front lawns or tinkered with their first cars in driveways or played basketball in the street.

Xander would come home from work in the evening and, no matter how tired he was, he’d smile as he turned the corner and saw his house. Once in a while he’d invite a couple of the guys from work over to play cards. He’d had overnight company several times, too—Rachel, whom he’d dated sort of off and on for a few months, and Jason, with whom he’d had a steamy fling for a couple of weeks. Neither relationship had turned out, but that wasn’t the house’s fault.

Xander was inside his beloved home, with his feet up on the coffee table and the remote in one hand and a Coke in the other, when the doorbell rang. He didn’t think much of it. It was early Saturday afternoon. Probably the neighbor kids had lost their ball in his backyard again, or maybe the girl across the street was back to hit him up for more Girl Scout cookies. She knew he was a sucker for Caramel deLites. But it was actually his mail carrier at the door, a plump lady in a white sun helmet.

“Certified Mail,” she said, holding up a white envelope. He frowned, but dutifully signed her electronic pad and took the letter and then thanked her. He walked with it into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

Certified Mail was bad. It was what you got when the coroner’s office in Boise informed you that your parents had been killed in a car crash. He turned the envelope gingerly in his hand as if something venomous might come out and bite him. And maybe it would, because the return address was from a law firm in LA. Finally, with a great deal of trepidation, he tore open the flap.

_  
Dear Mr. Harris  
_  
, it began. The rest of it was in legalese that swam meaninglessly before his eyes. It took him four read-throughs before he got the gist of the letter, and then he really wished he hadn’t. There was stuff about “prior liens” and “eviction” and “30 days.”

“Angel,” he said out loud. It sounded like cursing.

 

***

 

Four days earlier, Xander had come home late from work. He’d taken off his sweat-stiff clothes and had a quick lukewarm shower before slipping into a pair of shorts and a tee. Barefoot, he’d padded out into the twilight to check the mailbox. Just as he reached for the metal box, someone had materialized from behind the neighbors’ oleander hedge.

Xander never went anywhere without a weapon of some sort. Not even as far as the mailbox at the end of the driveway. He’d yanked the stake from his back pocket. Xander’s reflexes had, of necessity, sped up over the years. Only the streetlight shining on Angel's face had saved him from a bad case of wood in the heart.

Xander checked his stab just in time and then he and Angel had stared at each other in shock: Angel at his near-dusting experience, and Xander at the fact that Angel was there at all. “What the _hell_?” said Xander at last, taking a step backwards.

Angel tried to regain his cool. “Xander.”

“What the—what are _you_ doing here?” Xander hadn’t seen Angel since the vampire left Sunnydale. In fact, a few years later, when Xander had read his email at an internet café in Singapore, he’d learned from Willow that Angel and his crew had all been killed. Xander hadn’t particularly shed any tears over it at the time, and hadn’t thought of Angel since. But now, here he was in the undead flesh, looming as big as ever in Xander’s driveway.

“I need your help,” said Angel. There was an odd expression on his face, one Xander couldn’t place at all.

Xander gaped at him.

“Please,” said Angel.

Xander shook his head and blinked his eye, but Angel was still standing there, looking like something painful had crawled up his ass. “Okay,” said Xander. “Let’s go inside and you can tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Angel looked slightly relieved. He trailed just behind Xander and paused at the front door until Xander said, “You’re invited in, Angel.”

Once inside, Angel glanced around without much curiosity. “You want a Coke?” Xander asked as they walked toward the kitchen.

Angel made a face. “No. Do you have something stronger?”

“Nope.” He’d been on the wagon for several years, ever since Santiago, when he’d been drinking so much that he started having blackouts and nearly ended up getting himself and a Slayer named Elisa killed. “And, needless to say, I’m fresh out of A-Pos.”

Angel just shook his head, so Xander snagged a can for himself, and then led Angel into the living room. Xander sat on the couch and Angel perched awkwardly on a chair.

Xander said, “So, word has it that you're dead….er.”

“Not quite. There was a battle a few years back. I lost. I’ve been—sort of out of circulation since then.”

“And when you returned to circulation you decided to pay _me_ a visit?”

Angel closed his eyes for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Have you forgotten the part where I can’t stand you? And the other part where—oh yeah—I still can’t stand you?”

“I need your help.”

“Yeah, you said that already. Doesn’t make any more sense the second time.” Xander sprawled back against the cushions and waited.

Angel rubbed his face with both hands and, for a moment, looked very old. “Okay. A while back I got…mixed up with a law firm. It was run by demons, part of this evil…well, they weren’t nice guys. I thought I might be able to destroy them. But I couldn’t. They killed my friends. And then I got sent…away.”

“Not on vacation, I take it?”

“Another dimension. It was a lot like this one, actually, only the timeline was off. It was the 1890s there. And I was human.”

Xander narrowed his eye and really looked at Angel. Only then did he notice that Angel was breathing, that there were little lines on his face that weren’t there before. That he was sporting stubble on his chin. “Jesus Christ. Wait! Why did you need to be invited inside my house?”

Angel shrugged. “Force of habit.”

Xander took a moment to absorb Angel's returned humanity. “So if you were in this other world, what are you doing here?”

“I found my way back. It wasn’t easy. It took me almost six years, and even then, it was pretty much just luck that got me here.”

“You didn’t like it there?”

“It was okay. But my job here’s not done. The firm—”

“Got it. Evil demons. I’m not gonna help you with that. You can call up the Council; they’ll probably send over a whole squadron of Slayers, but I’m out of it.”

“I don’t want help fighting them. Enough people have been killed already.”

“Then why are you here, Angel?” Xander finally popped open his can and took a long chug.

“They sent Spike away, too.”

A younger Xander might have done a spit-take. This version didn’t. He swallowed and then drank some more. “Spike. The burned-under-Sunnydale Spike?”

“Yeah. Also known as the resurrected-in-LA Spike.”

Xander knew he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he was having a conversation right now with a man he’d thought dead several times over. “Resurrected when?”

“Not long after Sunnydale. He ended up staying with us, joining the fight.”

“But why didn’t anyone say anything? I mean—Buffy doesn’t know, does she?”

Angel’s face tightened. “He didn’t want her to. He…I guess he wanted her to think of him going out like a hero.”

Xander turned that over in his head for a moment. It did make a kind of sense.

Angel stood, and for a moment it seemed as if he was going to come to the couch, but instead he walked over to the fireplace. There was a photo there of Xander and Andreas sitting at an outdoor café under a red umbrella, laughing. The thing with Andreas hadn’t worked out either, not long term, but Xander had spent a very happy few weeks with him, and the picture was a nice reminder. Angel looked at the picture for a long time.

With his back to Xander, Angel said, “When I first got sent away, I thought Spike had been dusted during the battle. But the wizard who sent me back, he found out that Spike hadn’t, that he’d been sent to another dimension, too.”

“Maybe he’s happy there.”

“He’s not. He’s…I don’t know all the details. But he’s hurting.”

Xander wondered when Angel started caring whether Spike hurt. “So zap him back here.”

“Can’t. The magic doesn’t work that way. He needs someone there with him, someone who can do the spells.” He turned around and looked at Xander. “Willow could do it. She’s the only one I know who could.”

“So that’s the favor you need from me? You need me to talk Willow into poofing herself to another world on a Spike-saving mission?”

“That’s part of it, yes. Look, I didn’t want to contact any of you. I don’t want the firm to know what I’m up to. But the wizard was kind of a seer, too. And he said the only one who can save Spike is you.”

Xander set his empty pop can down on the coffee table. “Okay, leaving aside for a moment the weirdness of the whole story, why would I go after Spike? I’m retired from all that. I put in my time and I have the scars and nightmares to prove it. And we’re talking Spike here. The bleached menace.”

“Yeah, he’s an annoying little pain in the ass. But he stood by me, there at the end. I owe him this, I guess.”

Xander shook his head. “Maybe you do. But I don’t owe him anything.”

“But he needs—”

Xander leapt to his feet. “I don’t care what Spike needs, or what you need, for that matter. I told you, I’m done! Look at this.” He lifted up his shirt to show the ugly lines that marred his stomach. “You want to know what’s not fun? Spending several weeks in a hospital in Kolokani with a suppurating belly wound. Or losing pieces of yourself, bit by bit.” He held up his left hand so Angel could see the two missing fingers. “I like my pieces. I want to keep the rest of them. I quit.”

“I have nowhere else to turn, Xander.”

Xander opened his mouth, then shut it. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. “No. Now get out of here.” He gestured at the door.

“Xander, please.”

“I’ll call the cops.”

Angel looked at him with something very close to despair then shook his head. He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out toward Xander. “You can reach me here if you change your mind.”

Xander didn’t take the paper, so Angel set it on the mantel, then walked toward the door. Xander opened it for him and waited for Angel to leave. As Angel stepped over the threshold, though, he turned, and lifted his hand as if he were going to touch Xander. But then he let it drop to his side. “Please. Reconsider.”

Xander didn’t answer. As soon as Angel was gone, Xander shut the door and fastened all the locks.

 

***

 

“What did you do, asshole?”

“Xander, is that you?” There was a lot of background noise, as if Angel were standing somewhere close to heavy traffic. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No, I didn’t change my fucking mind. What did you do?”

There was a brief silence on the other end. “What’s happened?”

“Your demon law firm—are they called Wolfram &amp; Hart?”

“Shit. What’s going on, Xander?”

“They’re pulling some kind of legal crap with my house, that’s what’s going on. They’re trying to take it away from me. My fucking home!” Saying it out loud like that, Xander felt like he might cry.

This time, the silence was longer. Finally, Angel cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

  
[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/166160.html)

 

  



	3. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter: **3/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all)   


_   
**Madhouse (3 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cxpcr/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Three  
**

 

The main entrance of the asylum was a big space, with austere stone walls and ceiling, and an echoing marble floor. A few uncomfortable-looking wooden benches were huddled off to one side. There was nothing at all in the room that was soft or welcoming. It was immaculately clean, but even Spike’s human nose could pick up the scents of medicine and despair.

A thin woman in a nurse’s uniform sat bent over some papers at a wooden desk. She looked up as they approached, and Spike’s heart began to hammer in his chest. She looked remarkably like Drusilla, but with her hair bobbed short and her face sunburned red.

“Hello, Dr. Giles,” the woman said. Her accent was flat and Midwestern. She barely glanced at Spike.

“Good evening, Nurse Fremont.” Giles made his way to the metal door behind the desk, and the orderly followed, still pushing Spike in the chair.

“Is this a new admission?” she asked.

“Yes. His paperwork’s not ready yet.”

Without another glance at Spike, she nodded and returned to shuffling some files on her desk.

“Dru?” Spike managed to ask. She didn’t look up again.

Giles pulled out an impressive ring of keys and unlocked the door. That led them into a tiny vestibule with a second door in front of them, this one made of close-set iron bars. The first door clanked shut heavily behind them. A guard was perched on a stool on the other side of the bars; he hurried to unlock the door with his own set of keys. The sound of the bars closing behind Spike carried even more finality.

Spike tried to stand, but the orderly pushed him back down. “See here, Rupert,” Spike began, but the orderly cuffed him alongside his sore head so hard that his ears rang.

“He’ll have to be taught the rules of the institution, of course,” Giles said to the orderly without looking back. “Perhaps you’ll assist me with those lessons, Dunham.”

Dunham chuckled in a way that made Spike’s blood run cold. “I’ll be happy to, Dr. Giles.”

As Spike fought to quell his growing panic, they walked down a long, empty corridor. It was dimly lit. The floor was scuffed white linoleum and the walls were painted a sickly green. Somewhere far away, Spike thought he heard someone laughing or crying. He wasn’t sure which.

The hallway twisted and turned and branched several times. Three times, Giles unlocked doors and they passed through. Just when Spike was becoming convinced that he was in Hell and the corridor was infinite, and also that he was going to piss himself, Giles opened one more door. “Put him in here for tonight. Have him ready for examination at eight sharp.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dunham.

Giles marched away without another word. When Spike started to call after him, Dunham hit him again, this time on the mouth. The taste of blood was bitter and unwelcome.

Dunham pushed him inside. The windowless room was roughly twenty feet square. A half-dozen metal doors, each with a heavy bolt, were set into the wall. At one end of the room was a toilet, which Spike was very happy to see, and some hanging hooks and chains that he was not. A red hose was coiled neatly on one wall, next to a plain white sink.

Dunham hauled Spike to his feet. He wadded the flimsy fabric of Spike’s hospital gown in his meaty fists and quickly and easily tore the garment to shreds, leaving Spike completely naked. Dunham dropped the pieces of fabric onto the wheelchair and grabbed Spike’s elbow.

Spike tried to struggle. But his hands were still tightly bound behind him and his feet hobbled by a very short chain. When he tried to head-butt the orderly, Dunham simply laughed and gave him a slight shove, and Spike lost his balance and fell face-first onto the tile floor. Dunham laughed again, stuck his hands under Spike’s arms, and yanked him upwards. Then he dragged him toward the toilet and shoved him down onto it. “You’d best empty yourself now,” Dunham said.

Spike spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “Don’t fancy an audience, pervert.”

Dunham smiled and boxed Spike’s ear. Spike almost fell off the toilet, but Dunham caught him. “Now’s your last chance.” His voice was surprisingly high for such a big man.

With a small sigh of resignation, Spike relaxed and, for the first time in over a hundred years, emptied his bladder. It felt so good to finally relieve the pressure that for a moment he almost forgot his other problems. But as soon as the urine slowed to a trickle and then stopped, Dunham was yanking him to his feet again and dragging him across the floor to one of the doors. The orderly unbolted the door and shoved Spike face-first into the wall beside it. He unlocked and removed the cuffs, but before Spike could even think about taking a swing at him, he heaved Spike through the door and into the tiny cell. Spike fell again—at least this time he was able to break his fall with his hands—and, as he tried to scramble to his still-bound feet, the door slammed closed.

The cell was completely dark except for a tiny sliver of light that crept in under the door. But then that light was extinguished as well and, outside, another door crashed shut. Even his vampire eyes couldn’t have discerned much in the complete darkness. Spike felt cautiously about, but there was little to feel. Four stone walls, each perhaps six feet long. The door, which had no latch or knob. Spike couldn’t even manage to slip a finger into the tight space between the door and its frame. The floor was hard, slippery tile, and there was nothing on it other than himself. If he reached upwards, he could touch the ceiling. More stone, smooth and closely set.

There were no sounds apart from his own harsh breathing.

Spike sank down to the floor again and curled on his side, his back wedged in a corner and his arm pillowing his aching head. He didn’t understand what had happened to him, or what Rupert’s scheme was. Certainly Spike had never possessed the Watcher’s affection, but Rupert had seemed most apt to try to dust him when Spike was dangerous and ignore him when he wasn’t. And although Spike had caught a hard glint in Rupert’s eyes now and then—no doubt a remnant of the younger self he tried so hard to hide—Spike hadn’t expected that this sort of treatment was within Rupert’s repertoire.

There was, in fact, only one thing of which Spike was very certain now. For the first time since Pavayne had tried to drag him to Hell, Spike was terrified.

 

***

 

He didn’t exactly sleep—he was too worried and uncomfortable for that. The slight doze he did manage was interrupted by the sound of a creaky door, then a bit of light made its way into his cell. A moment later the bolt on the cell door thudded and the door swung open. Spike had tried to prepare himself for this moment. But the burst of light nearly blinded him, and his ankles were still locked in the bloody hobble. The most he managed was a wild swing and then there was Dunham’s already-familiar chuckle in his ear, and the man’s enormous hands holding Spike’s arms tightly behind his back and snapping handcuffs in place.

Spike was hustled out into the main room. Another man was waiting there, dressed, like Dunham, in white trousers and shirt. This man was older than Dunham, perhaps in his early forties, and whip thin. He stared at Spike the way a child might gaze at a toy in a shop window. “What’s wrong with this one?” he asked in an odd, whistling voice.

“Thinks he’s a vampire from the future.”

Both orderlies laughed, and Spike snarled as Dunham manhandled him onto the toilet again. When Spike simply sat there, fuming, Dunham gave him a cheery smile. “Do it yourself, unless you want a catheter and an enema.”

“Bloody sick wankers.”

The orderlies’ smiles didn’t fade, but Dunham gestured toward a rubber apparatus that hung from a shelf in the far corner. Spike shuddered and looked away. As the men watched, he emptied his bladder and bowels. He wouldn’t have relished the necessity of disgusting human needs even if he hadn’t been forced to do them under observation.

Dunham pulled Spike to his feet and flushed the toilet with a mechanism set into the floor. He pulled Spike a few feet to the side. “Give me a hand, Reynolds,” he said, and the other man scurried over. Between the two of them, they managed to release Spike’s hands from the cuffs and then quickly reattach his wrists to an overhead hook. When Reynolds knelt to unlock Spike’s feet, Spike did manage to get in a single, satisfying kick to the man’s shoulder. Reynolds squawked but didn’t release his grip, and a moment later Spike’s legs were spread and his feet fastened to the floor. Reynolds kneed Spike in the groin, and Spike grunted loudly.

“Hey! Don’t damage him!” Dunham said. “Dr. Giles will be really angry if you do. You can play with the little bastard later, okay?”

Reynolds made a sour face and nodded.

After that, Dunham turned on the hose and pointed the nozzle at Spike. The water was ice cold and forceful enough to sting. When the spray hit his face, Spike had to struggle to breathe, but he also tried to swallow some of the water; he’d had nothing to drink for ages and his mouth was very dry. The orderlies played the stream all over his body, delighting in his yelps when they washed his genitals, as well as his growls when they forced the water into the cleft of his arse. Reynolds ran a bar of harsh, caustic-smelling soap over Spike’s hair and body, taking a moment to fondle and squeeze Spike’s dick as he went. The suds from Spike’s scalp stung his eyes as it dripped. When Reynolds soaped Spike’s arse, he made sure to press in deep, and when one of his fingers pressed against Spike’s hole, almost but not quite entering his body, Spike roared and thrashed powerlessly. The orderlies laughed and Reynolds slapped Spike’s arse.

The hose was turned on him again, rinsing the soap into the floor drain. When the water was turned off, Spike was left dripping and violently shivering. He tried to fight again as the men reshackled him, but they easily managed to get him in irons. This time he had a slightly longer hobble between his legs, and his wrists were bound to a chain that was cinched tightly about his waist.

Dunham and Reynolds shoved and jostled Spike down the hallway, where the dim lighting cast a sickly pallor on the empty space. After Reynolds slapped Spike’s arse again to hurry him along, Spike curled his lip at the man. “Gets your knickers all wet, doesn’t it? Abusing a helpless man. I’ll wager your Dad really fucked you over, or was it your Mum?”

Reynolds grinned at him like a death’s head. “I’m gonna have such fun with you.”

It wasn’t long before they came to another featureless metal door. Dunham pulled it open and propelled Spike inside. The contents of this room made Spike feel ill again: there was a metal table with thick leather straps in the center of the space, and carts and shelving full of instruments made of gleaming metal and dull black rubber and shining glass. Spike dug in his heels and tried to back away, but Dunham wrestled him onto the metal table. The metal shackles were removed from Spike's wrists and ankles, but the orderlies buckled the leather straps around his head and chest and around his wrists. They lifted his legs into stirrups—Reynolds narrowly avoided another kick—and strapped down his ankles and knees, so that his legs were kept bent and wide apart.

Spike fought against the bindings. Had he been a vampire, he could have torn them free, and then his conscience would have given him no qualms about ripping out these men’s throats. But now he was only human, and his struggles merely amused the men, and bruised his own flesh.

But the orderlies stopped laughing and almost snapped to attention as the door was flung open. Giles strode in. He wore a tweed suit with a watch-chain visible on the waistcoat. When he saw Spike he smiled in a way that made Spike very uneasy. “Ready on time, I see. Excellent,” said Giles. Spike had to roll his eyes to follow Giles as the man stepped to the side of the room, shrugged off his suit jacket, and hung it on a wooden hanger that was suspended from a coat rack. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt before washing his hands at a sink in the corner.

“Let us see what we have,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel as he approached Spike.

“Look, Rupert, I know we haven’t been the best of mates—” Spike was interrupted when Giles slapped his face.

“I’ve told you already. You are to address me as Dr. Giles.”

Spike took a calming breath. “Right, then. Dr. Giles. I’ve a soul now, remember? And I’ve saved the world more than once.”

Giles tilted his head a bit. “Hmm. Superiority complex. Interesting. I shall have to add that to my notes.”

“Ru—Just bloody listen to me! I don’t know what you want from me, but I was helping Angel fight those sodding demons, and—”

“Silence,” Giles interrupted. “I’ve no more need to hear your delusional ravings. I am going to explain some things to you, and I expect you to listen closely, because I shall not repeat myself. I am Dr. Rupert Giles, as you already know. And because you recognized me yesterday, I daresay you may already be aware that I am the director of the Asylum for the Incurably Insane. You have been admitted here as a patient.”

“’M not a lunatic.”

“But you believe you are—or, more precisely, _were_—a vampire. And that you have travelled here from the future. Is that not correct? And then you’ve blathered on about saving the world, and angels and demons and—what was it now? Ah, yes. Scoobies. And witches, and some other creatures that are purely products of your own imagination.”

Spike was still confused, but he thought furiously. “I was only having some fun yesterday. Wanted to get out of hospital and avoid jail, you see.”

Giles smiled slightly. “I do see. Now you’re attempting to deny it all. But I think you believe every word you said, and furthermore, you were found nude and injured in the Canton town square, and that’s hardly normal behavior. You are clearly suffering from schizophrenia. Perhaps some other illnesses as well. We shall have to see.”

“Look, pillock, I’m not daft and I’m not ill. Just…let me go. I’ll leave town—leave the whole bloody state—and you’ll never see me again.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, William. You’ve been assigned to my care now.”

“You can’t hold me here against my will!”

“Of course I can. The commitment papers will be signed in two days’ time.”

“But….” Spike searched his brain for knowledge of legal proceedings. He’d picked up a bit when he was at Wolfram &amp; Hart. “There’s been no hearing. I’m entitled to a hearing and a legal guardian, and—”

Giles shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Aside from the staff here, your ravings have been witnessed by no fewer than five respectable men and women. One of them is even a physician, quite an experienced one. They will all swear to what they have witnessed, and that will be enough for Judge Rayne, I assure you.”

Spike’s head was whirling and he wanted to scream in denial.

“Now,” continued Giles. “I recommend you remain on your best behavior, or we can make your stay here very uncomfortable. And you’ll be staying with us, well, permanently, most likely. As the name of the asylum suggests, we believe your illness is incurable. You most likely inherited it from your parents. It’s a pity, of course—not your fault, really—but we must protect the public, as well as protect you from harming yourself.”

Spike strained against the leather straps as hard as he could, arching his back, feeling the bindings digging into his skin. “I’m not bloody insane!” he yelled.

“Yes, well, I think we’ve heard quite enough from our patient today. Dunham, please gag him so I may perform the examination in peace.”

Spike tried to resist, but the orderly seemed well practiced at this sort of thing. He dug his thumbs into the hinge of Spike’s jaw until Spike was forced to unclench his teeth, and then quickly thrust a hard rubber ball inside. He had to undo the strap on Spike’s forehead in order to buckle the gag in place, but then he quickly refastened everything. The gag forced Spike’s mouth uncomfortably wide and its straps dug into his cheeks.

“Much better,” Giles said. “Now, let’s see.”

Spike tried to relax as Giles peered into his eyes and ears and poked various instruments at him. He wasn’t going to be able to escape right now, that was clear, and his best odds were probably to appear compliant. But as Giles’s hands proceeded southward, the examination began to seem less professional and more…proprietary…and Spike tensed again. Giles trailed his fingertips softly over Spike’s belly and then into Spike’s pubic hair. “At least this hair color is natural,” he said with a quirk to his mouth. The orderlies sniggered.

Spike shouted into the gag when Giles took Spike’s flaccid cock into his hand. Giles prodded at the organ, lifting it and pulling back the foreskin. “Not circumcised,” he clucked. “Not very sanitary. We shall have to do something about that. But he appears otherwise clean. No signs of disease.”

Next he lifted Spike’s bollocks, cupping them in his hand, weighing them, squeezing them lightly. “We shall have to do something about this,” he said. Spike made a desperate, garbled noise, which everyone ignored.

And then, not surprisingly, he was touching Spike’s sphincter. At first he just pressed a finger to the entrance, but then he turned and dipped his fingers in a small glass jar. When he turned back, he slid one long finger inside. The finger was greasy and didn’t really hurt, but still Spike made his useless noises and tried ineffectually to free himself.

Giles moved his finger about a bit, stopping when he brushed against Spike’s prostate. Again, the corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile as he pressed against the sensitive bit of flesh. Spike went very still, and he closed his eyes, but that didn’t stop Giles from stimulating him. And all of Spike’s attempts to will his erection away did no good either; he felt the warm blood begin to collect in his cock, thickening it, making it feel heavy. “He seems to have normal responses,” Giles said, again causing the orderlies to laugh.

Spike breathed a long sigh of relief through his nose when Giles withdrew his finger and wiped it on the towel. “Very well, gentlemen. I believe you have other duties to attend to. Leave me. You can return for him in an hour.”

Dunham and Reynolds exchanged knowing looks and then left.

Giles stood over Spike, looking at him, and for a brief moment Spike had a spark of hope. But then Giles stepped back between Spike’s legs and Spike heard a zip being unfastened. He closed his eyes again and moaned in desolation. As Giles shoved his cock against and then into Spike, Spike dug his teeth into the rubber ball, but that didn’t dull the pain. It was not just physical pain at being violated, but something deeper, more disturbing. Spike realized that this was not the Rupert Giles he knew, and with a sick certainty that lodged somewhere near his heart, Spike knew he would never be free from the Asylum.

  
[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/166529.html)

 

  



	4. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 4/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (4 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ch0zd/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Four  
**

 

Out of all the strange things that had happened to Xander in his life—and there had certainly been some doozies—one of the strangest was to be sitting across from Angel at a Red Robin, watching him plow into a Banzai Burger and fries. Xander wasn’t very hungry, so he mostly played with the straw in his glass of Coke.

“I’m sorry,” Angel said when he paused to wipe his mouth. “I didn’t realize Wolfram &amp; Hart was watching me.”

“So now I have nasty demon lawyers on my ass.”

“Just be happy they’re only throwing paperwork at you.”

“Happy? Happy is what I _was_, a few short days ago, with my comfy, demon-free house and my not-crappy and demon-free job, and, oh yeah, my lack of demons. Now I’m just fucked.” His voice had risen, and the lady sitting at the next table with her husband and two noisy kids glared at him. He gave her a slightly apologetic look.

“I know, Xander. I said I’m sorry. If I had anywhere else to turn, I would. But I told you, the wizard said Spike’s suffering, and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Xander took a sip of his drink. “How do you know this wizard guy was telling the truth? Magicky types aren’t always the most trustworthy, you know.”

Angel’s eyes shifted strangely and his jaw worked. “I got to know him pretty well. I…I trust him.”

Xander stared at him for a moment, and then a thought hit him like a sledgehammer. “Merciful Zeus. You and the wizard hooked up.”

Angel ducked his head and regarded the remains of his dinner. “He was a friend when I needed one. I got zapped there with nothing, not even clothing—”

“That must have created a stir.”

“I got zapped into the middle of the woods. There was nobody around. But I didn’t know where the hell I was, and I was suddenly human…. It took me some time to find help. He saved me.”

They were interrupted just then as their perky waitress came by to refill Xander’s Coke and Angel’s water. When she was gone, Xander said, “Were you and Spike…together?”

 “Do you need to know the entire history of my sex life, Xander?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why you care so much that Spike’s stuck somewhere.”

“Fine. The last couple months in LA were pretty stressful. Spike and I…eased some of that stress. Together.”

Xander had a sudden mental image of Angel and Spike writhing together in bed, naked. It was a much more intriguing image than he would have guessed, and he banished it from his consciousness, because pervy vampire sex thoughts were not what he was supposed to be worrying about right now. “I didn’t know you were gay,” he said, even though that was not the point. “I mean, there was the whole Buffy thing.”

“I’m not gay.”

Xander raised his eyebrow.

“I’m…flexible,” Angel said.

“Is it a vampire thing?”

“I don’t know. I was human when I was with y—the wizard. I never knew you liked men, either.”

Xander smiled. “I’m flexible, too.” Then he decided to steer the conversation back on track. “Okay, so you get the hots for Spike and this wizard, and I end up with the problems.”

“You used to be one of the good guys, Xander.”

“I still am. There’s nothing un-good about building houses. It might not avert apocalypses, but I’m okay with that.”

Angel only looked at him.

Finally, Xander sighed. “Okay. Let’s suppose I do agree to try and help Spike—Wait! I didn’t say yet I’d do it. This is hypothetical.”

Angel nodded hopefully.

“How would that solve my lawyer problem?”

“It won’t. But now that they know I talked to you, they’re not gonna leave you alone. Visiting another dimension might not be a bad idea for a while.”

“Gee. Thanks. Really appreciate this, Angel.”

Angel didn’t look especially apologetic.

Xander said, “So I can do nothing and be hounded by lawyers. I can go on a wild Spike chase in another dimension and still be hounded by lawyers. Or I can give the whole thing up and drag back to the Council with my tail between my legs.”

Angel shrugged and ate another French fry.

Xander hid his face in his hands. It wasn’t fair. It seemed like he’d spent his entire life faced with one bad choice after another, and no matter how he tried, he got screwed.

Over the years, Xander had learned some truths about himself. One was that bouts of self-pity got him nowhere but the bottom of a bottle. They certainly never made his life easier. And the second thing he’d learned was that if he didn’t attempt to play the hero, his conscience would weight him like a stone. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life feeling guilty about Spike, of all people.

He lowered his hands and looked into Angel’s expectant face. “Asshole,” he said.

Angel’s face broke into a grin.

 

***

 

Somehow, the decision to throw his life away—again—seemed to merit a drink. No use being completely sober if you’re fucking up the rest of your life anyway, Xander decided. But neither of them wanted to drink the overpriced, fruit-filled concoctions that Red Robin sold as alcohol. That didn't prove to be much of an impediment, though—there was a BevMo just across the parking lot and, near that, the Holiday Inn Express where Angel was staying. So they trooped over to the store first. It was strange to see Angel outside before the sun had set. He bought a bottle of something Irish and expensive, and they headed to his room at the hotel.

They sat across from each other at the small table. Angel opened the bottle and poured some of the liquid into the hotel’s plastic cups. “Not exactly the posh digs I would have pegged you for,” Xander said, looking around. “Willow told me you had kind of a fancy hotel all to yourself in LA. Are you short on cash? And how are you keeping yourself fed and sheltered, incidentally?” He couldn’t picture Angel having an actual job.

Angel made an unhappy face. “I have money. I tucked it away over the years, here and there. But I’m moving around a lot, trying to stay out of Wolfram &amp; Hart’s sight.”

“Yeah? And how’s that working for you? ‘Cause they caught on to your visit with me pretty quick.”

Angel winced. “Yeah. Sometimes I give them the slip for a while. They don’t really want to do too much against me now. There was a prophecy.”

Xander took a sip of the whiskey. Gods, it tasted so good. “Prophecies suck.”

Angel nodded and drank down all the amber liquid in his cup in one draught.

Xander finished his off as well, and then waited as Angel poured their refills. “So. What do I need to know to survive this idiocy?”

They continued to drink as Angel told his tale. He’d emerged in the other dimension nude, confused, moderately injured, and human. He’d discovered fairly quickly where he was—Seattle, Washington, 1892. It had taken him a little longer to realize that the world he was in wasn’t quite the same as his own. There were subtle differences, like shifts in place names or tiny historical variations. In that reality, Benjamin Harrison was re-elected in 1892, not Grover Cleveland, and Seattle lay on Wilkes Bay. It had taken Angel a while to get his feet under him, but at least his long existence had taught him to be resourceful. And there was plenty of work to be found for a strong young man. But he’d worried about Wolfram &amp; Hart and what they were up to. He wasn’t sure whether the firm had sent him away or if someone else was responsible—a former god named Illyria, maybe, or something called the Powers That Be—but in any case he needed to get home. After a lot of travel and a lot of questions in the right places, he’d managed to find the wizard—in Omaha, as it turned out—and he and the wizard had eventually worked out a way to get Angel home. It did not involve ruby slippers. It did, however, seem to involve some serious nooky beforehand.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Xander said. He was a little drunk by then.

Angel rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

“He couldn’t come with you? It seems to me like a wizard would be handy when going up against demons.”

“I wouldn’t let him.” The lines on Angel’s face grew deep with anguish. “I’ve already lost everyone else….”

Without really thinking about it, Xander patted Angel’s hand, which was resting on the table. Angel looked surprised for a moment, but didn’t move away. Instead, he covered Xander’s hand—it was the one with the missing fingers—with his other one. Something indefinable passed between them.

“Am I gonna end up in Seattle, too?” Xander asked in a soft voice.

“No. Spike’s not in the same place. I don’t know when or where he is, but I think I can help Willow find him.”

“Did your wizard say why I’m so important to this operation?”

“No.” Angel’s hand was very large and warm. “Look, I have to tell you something else. When you’re there, you might see people who…who look like people you know. They might even have the same names. But they won’t be exactly the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Al—the wizard said it’s some kind of fate thing. People who are important to each other find their way to each other, no matter what the setting.”

“Who did you see?”

Angel’s jaw clenched. “Quite a few people. Anne and Ronald Finn ran a grocery in Omaha.”

Xander frowned. “Anne and—Oh! Buffy and Riley?”

“More or less. Darla St. Claire had a bawdy house in San Francisco. Not so different from my Darla, really. Drusilla was one of her whores. Wes managed a shipping company in Portland, Charles Gunn was a cowboy in Wyoming, William Pratt was a schoolteacher in Kansas City, Cordelia Chase was a society woman in Seattle.”

“Oh.”

“When you see these familiar faces, just don’t expect them to be the people you know.” Angel looked away, and Xander realized with horror that tears had gathered in the man’s eyes. Angel was trying very hard to keep from crying, but his lower jaw was shaking and the salty liquid was overflowing, running down his cheeks.

Xander knew this was Angel. But this was also a man, miserable and haunted and, as far as Xander knew, without a friend in this world. So Xander followed his instincts and gently withdrew his hand. Then he stood and walked around the table and bent over, and enfolded Angel in his arms.

Things proceeded a bit strangely after that.

Angel embraced Xander back—that part wasn’t so strange—and cried on Xander’s shoulder, and then Xander was crying too, because he hadn’t, not in a very long time. But then somehow the mutual sob-fest morphed into a kiss, hot and hard and hungry, and clothing disappeared, and there they were on Angel’s bed, rubbing and rutting desperately against one another.

By the time they’d both climaxed and collapsed, side by side, sticky and sweaty, most of the bedding and all four pillows were on the floor. Xander turned his head to look at Angel, who was regarding him gravely. “Angel?”

“Yeah?”

“That wizard of yours….”

Angel sighed. “His name was Alexander Harris.”

 

***

 

Xander spent the night in Angel’s hotel room, in Angel’s bed. They didn’t cuddle. But they lay very close to one another, and it was comforting for Xander to have all that bulk next to him, to listen to Angel’s snores.

It was mid-morning when they awoke. Although Xander was cold sober by then and felt itchy with dried come on his belly, they reached for each other wordlessly and made out for a while and the whole thing seemed almost normal. It wasn’t even weird when Angel slithered under the sheets and gave Xander a fairly spectacular blow-job, or when Xander padded into the bathroom, grabbed the tiny bottle of hand lotion off the counter, and handed it to Angel. It didn’t make a very good lube, but it was better than nothing. It wasn’t the first time Xander had bottomed, but it was the first time he’d had sex with a man without a rubber—because even if Angel had an STD, Xander probably wouldn’t live long enough to suffer from it. Angel’s cock was proportionate to the rest of him—long and thick—and the burn as he rocked into Xander was sweet.

When they were finished, they lay facing each other on the mattress, and Xander wondered whether he looked as shellshocked as Angel. “You know I’m not him?” Xander said gently.

Angel smiled slightly. “Alex had two good eyes. And a beard. And he always smelled like mint.”

Xander glanced down at his own stomach. “He probably didn’t have the pretty scars, either, and I bet he could count to ten on his fingers.”

Angel trailed the back of his hand lightly along Xander’s belly. It made Xander shiver a little. “I like the scars,” Angel said. “They’re interesting. And actually, he was down a couple fingers. They got caught in a combine when he was a kid.”

“Huh.”

“I know you’re not him,” Angel said.

They took turns showering, and then Xander had to put on his clothes from the day before. He hadn’t brought a suitcase with him. Hadn’t brought anything at all, actually.

As he waited for Angel to get out of the bathroom—the guy apparently spent a lot of time in front of the mirror, now that he could—Xander was surprised at what he didn’t feel. He didn’t feel hungover. He didn’t feel embarrassed or awkward over having sex with Angel. And he didn’t feel regret over his decision to try and rescue Spike. It was very strange.

When Angel finally emerged, Xander handed him a cup of coffee brewed in the room's machine. “I’ve gotta call Willow and bring her in on the loop, find a way to lure her to California. How do you want to handle this?”

“You could go back home. The firm probably won’t try anything right away, not when they have the eviction pending.”

“And you?”

Angel shrugged and smiled wryly. “There’s a Hilton Garden Inn in Clovis that sounds charming.”

Xander thought for a moment. “And if I suggested that we both head to my place so I can pack a few things, and then maybe we could experience the delights of Clovis together?”

Christ, Angel was really handsome when he smiled like that. “I’d say that sounds like a very good plan.”

  
[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/166790.html)

 

  



	5. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 5/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all)   


  


_   
**Madhouse (5 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cg713/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Five  
**

 

Institutions are usually all about routine, and the Illinois Asylum for the Incurably Insane seemed no exception. Each morning, Dunham and Reynolds would pull Spike out of his miserable little room. He was often filthy from blood and come, sometimes from vomit, and sometimes he’d soiled himself in the tiny confines of the cell. They’d stick him on the toilet. Then they’d hose him down, laughing and groping, and he would drink as much water as he could manage. He’d fight as much as he could during the process—kicking, thrashing, biting—whatever he could do. But the orderlies seemed used to dealing with such behavior, and he rarely managed to hurt them at all. On the few occasions when he was successful, they’d still get him trussed up, and then they’d find ways to hurt him without leaving marks.

When he was clean and shivering with cold, they’d gag him and drag him down the hall. He’d tried resisting, or just going limp, but then Reynolds would loop a length of thin rope around Spike’s balls and pull him along that way. He hadn’t been permitted any clothing since he’d arrived.

Dunham and Reynolds would strap him down on the table in that clinical room and Giles would enter shortly afterward for what he called the daily examination, but which was really the daily rape. Then he’d go away again, leaving Spike tied down helplessly. Dunham and Reynolds would eventually return. Sometimes one or both of them would bugger him as well. Then they’d loosen him from the table and haul him back down the corridor, his arse sore and semen dripping down his thighs.

Back in the room outside his cell, they’d kneel him on the floor and give him a bowl of water and a bowl of cold, disgusting mush. He had to lap at them like a dog. The one time he’d refused to eat, they’d chained him down and then stuck a tube down his throat; Reynolds had poured the slop down Spike’s gullet.

When the food and water were gone, they would shove Spike back into his cell and bolt the door shut.

Many hours later, perhaps at the end of the shift, the orderlies would come back. Spike was once again placed on the toilet and fed. And then, after this brief reprieve, he was locked in his cell for the night.

He had no idea how long this went on.

He never saw anyone but the three men, was never given the chance to speak to Giles. There was never even the remotest chance of escape.

Spike was beginning to wish he really would lose his sanity; perhaps that would make his life more bearable.

He felt very weak all the time. He didn’t know whether that was from his poor treatment or whether they were drugging his food. Perhaps both. His wrists and ankles were bruised and torn from the constant shackles, he’d developed a rash on his skin from lying in his own waste on the cold tiles, and hunger and thirst had become his constant companions.

Alone in his cell, sometimes he yelled. Sometimes he cried. It didn’t matter.

And then one day, for the first time in what felt like centuries, Giles actually looked in Spike’s eyes. He gave a false, fatherly smile. “You’ve had an introduction to our facility, Willy, but now I believe it’s time to move along. We’ll be sending you into the general population shortly. I believe that perhaps now you understand the consequences if you do not cooperate whilst you are there?”

Spike tried to blink his eyes in agreement. The general population meant a reprieve from that cell and perhaps a better opportunity to find some way out of this hell.

Giles chuckled slightly and patted Spike’s cheek. “Yes. But we’ve a few matters to sort first, haven’t we?” Spike began to breathe heavily through his nose. He didn’t like the implication of those words at all.

“Dunham, prepare him, please.”

With a broad grin splitting his ugly face, Dunham stepped forward. Giles moved slightly farther away to give the orderly room. Dunham clattered about with something on a tray, but Spike couldn’t move his head far enough to see what. When Dunham’s rough left hand rested on Spike’s groin, just where his leg met his torso, Spike shouted into the gag. Nobody paid him any mind.

Spike felt Dunham scraping at the skin of his groin, and he realized that the orderly was shaving him. Dunham was slow and careful about it, removing all the hair, even the hair on Spike’s scrotum. When he was finished, Spike felt somehow more horribly exposed than he had before. Then the harsh smell of mercurochrome filled his nostrils, and he snorted as Dunham applied the cold liquid to Spike’s balls and cock, making the little razor nicks sting. When Dunham was finished, he walked over to the sink and washed his hands. Meanwhile, Giles moved between Spike’s legs. He prodded at Spike’s genitals as if he were inspecting Dunham’s work, then made a small noise of approval. He reached for a small trolley and picked up a needle; a moment later Spike felt the needle pierce him, first near the crown of his penis and then on the underside of his scrotum.

If Spike could have spoken, he would have begged. As it was, though, he could only moan. His eyes blurred with tears of rage and fear. Giles ignored him, whistling tunelessly as he moved instruments about and repositioned the trolley.

“Yes,” Giles finally said. “I expect the anesthetic has had sufficient time to do its work. If not, well, you be sure to let me know, Willy.”

If Spike had been capable of murdering a man through his thoughts alone, Giles would have ended up a torn and mangled heap. But Spike was capable of nothing now, nothing except whimpering softly when Giles grasped Spike’s dick with one hand and began to cut with a scalpel held in the other.

The anesthetic had not, in fact, done much at all yet, and the pain was sharp and agonizing. But the sensation was also a slight relief, as Spike could tell that Giles was circumcising him, not actually cutting off his penis.

“There,” Giles said, wiping the organ with a cloth. “Much more hygienic this way. It reduces onanism as well. Not that our patients have the opportunity to engage in that vile habit.”

Spike almost relaxed, but then Giles took Spike’s bollocks in his hand. “State law is quite clear in this regard, Willy, and well it should be. The insane are to be sterilized. It’s for the good of everyone—we wouldn’t want you passing down your infirmities to a new generation. Not that you shall have the opportunity to do so in any case. The only females in this institution are the nurses who work at the reception desk, and you shan’t be seeing them again, either. But needs must.”

Spike made a strangled sound. Tears rolled down the side of his face, and spittle flowed out of the corners of his mouth.

Giles looked cheerful. He cradled Spike’s balls, rubbing one thumb absently over the skin. “I’ve been engaging in rather simple sterilization techniques. But the law doesn’t specify how the procedure is to be done. Ah, but all in good time. For now, it shall be simply a vasectomy.”

If Spike had ever yearned for parenthood, he'd given up those hopes the day he and his seed died. But he didn’t fancy anyone messing about with his bits, especially not this twisted fuck. Spike squirmed and strained but the straps would not give, and Giles gave Spike’s balls a warning squeeze. “If you don’t stay still, Willy, I’ll end up gelding you.”

Dunham guffawed and Reynolds wheezed with high-pitched chortles, as if Giles’s statement was wonderfully humorous.

Luckily, the injection had done its work by then, and Spike felt little except uncomfortable pressure as Giles performed the operation. Soon afterward, he stitched the small wound closed. He wiped Spike’s groin with a damp cloth and stood back with satisfaction. “All finished, then. Make certain he’s not able to disturb his wounds.”

“Want us to wrap him up?”

Giles tapped his chin with a blood- and mercurochrome-stained finger. “Yes. And make sure he stays clean.”

Once Giles was gone, the orderlies placed some thick plasters over the incisions. Then they unstrapped Spike. They had to help him to his feet and he stood there numbly as they replaced the chains on his body.

Already the medicine was wearing off. Spike shuffled miserably down the hallway, wishing the bloody hobbles would allow him to walk in a wider stance, wincing as every movement jarred his abused flesh. They didn’t go as far as they usually did; instead the orderlies turned in a direction he’d never been before and unlocked a door. This door led to a short hallway lined with doors. At the end of the hall was a tall metal cupboard. They dragged Spike over there and opened the cupboard door before pulling out some bulky items.

Reynolds removed the chains from Spike’s ankles and wrists and waist. Spike wanted to fight—this was the best opportunity he’d had in ages to attack them—but he wasn’t certain he’d even be able to stand if Reynolds wasn’t helping to prop him up.

The men put a pair of stiff canvas trousers on Spike. The material was rough against his skin, and it felt odd to be clothed again. He was able to protest only weakly as they shoved a straightjacket over his head and arms and cinched it tightly. Finally, they unlocked one of the doors to reveal a cell about the same size as the one in which he’d been kept. In this one, however, the walls and floor were thickly padded. The room stank of urine and the padding was stained.

Reynolds pushed him down until Spike was seated. Dunham passed a strap from the back of the straightjacket's collar, between Spike’s legs—he jostled Spike’s bollocks in the process, which made Spike groan—and buckled it to a strap that hung from the front of the collar. Spike couldn’t move his arms at all now, and any other movements would intensify his pain.

The orderlies looked down at him, pleased with their work. Dunham nudged Spike’s knee with his black-shoed foot. “If you piss or shit yourself now, you’re gonna end up with a nasty infection in places you don’t want infected. Gangrene ain’t pretty when it sets in on the wiener and beans, let me tell you. We’ll be back later to let you take a squat.”

Finally they removed the gag, then they left, locking the door behind them. This time, there was a small overhead lightbulb, and it stayed lit when they departed. It didn’t give him much solace.

He scooted gingerly backward so that he was wedged in the corner. He leaned his head back and stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, as if his salvation might come from above. His groin throbbed with every beat of his pulse and he had to choke back small, animal whines.

For no reason at all—maybe it was just his tattered mind’s attempt to distract him—he thought of Angel. He wondered whether his grandsire had survived the battle. He hoped so. He hoped the old git had finally found the redemption he hungered after so badly and was able to move on. Spike hoped he even brooded less now, and instead had more of those rare smiles that made him so beautiful. Spike hoped that once in a while, Angel thought of him.  
   
[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/167183.html)

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cqpkz/)  
  
---  
  
  
  



	6. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 6/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (6 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cf0b4/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Six  
**

 

Explaining the situation to Willow via an international phone call seemed too awkward. So Xander told her only that there was a new crisis and he needed her help and could she please not say anything about it to Buffy and Giles right now. For a while she tried to press him for details, but he dug in his metaphorical heels, and she knew how stubborn he could be.

“Fine,” she finally said. “But you better spill when I get there, mister.”

“I’ll spill so much you’ll beg me to shut up.”

So Willow made arrangements to fly into San Francisco as soon as she was able, which was four days later. Angel and Xander spent three of those days fucking like bunnies in Clovis. It had been a long time since Xander had had regular sex or companionship, and both were really, really nice. Even Angel relaxed a little, although his thoughts were still clearly on Spike and on that other Xander.

Early on the fourth day, they drove to the Bay Area. They had left Xander’s car at his house. It was just a beat-up old Toyota pickup anyway. Instead, they rode together in Angel’s car, a distinctly unflashy Acura that was still a lot more luxurious than anything Xander had ever owned. They checked into the Embassy Suites south of the airport. Xander liked Embassy Suites—the rates included all-you-can-eat full breakfasts. Their room looked over the lagoon, which wasn’t as good as the bay view rooms, but which beat the beautiful parking lot scenery they’d had at the last place.

They still had a little time before Willow’s plane arrived, so they caught some mediocre Mexican food at a nearby restaurant. Angel seemed to enjoy the meal, as he usually did. “We didn’t have food like this back when I was alive the first time,” he explained as he polished off his burrito. “And I didn’t appreciate it when I was dead.”

“Spike ate sometimes.”

“Spike was always a weird vampire. Even when he was a fledge.” Angel managed to look sad, fond, and slightly annoyed, all at once.

“How come?”

“How the hell do I know? Maybe he was a weird human, too. Or maybe it’s because Dru turned him. Maybe he inherited some of her craziness.”

They finished their meal and Angel paid. Xander wasn’t broke yet, but he was unemployed. He had called his boss and told him he’d had a family emergency. Bruce had understood, but he did have houses to build. Xander didn’t worry about it too much. If he survived the latest windmill tilting, he figured he could always find another job pretty easily.

They decided to take the hotel shuttle to the airport instead of driving, and arrived just as Willow’s plane landed. While they were waiting for her to get through customs, they stood at the window and watched the endless parade of small shuttle busses go by.

When Willow finally emerged behind a clot of middle-aged women, it was Xander she saw first. With his patch, he tended to stand out in a crowd, and anyway, Angel was sort of lurking along the edge. He was a good lurker.

Xander hadn’t seen his old friend in almost two years. She looked good. Her hair was kind of short and perky and she wore a pair of blue jeans and an aqua t-shirt with swirly designs on the front. She was dragging a medium-sized purple suitcase. She launched herself at Xander so hard he could barely breathe, and for a short moment it was just the two of them, reunited.

Then she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled away to arm's length. She gave him a long, careful look. “Are you okay, Xan? ‘Cause you look okay, but if you were hunky-dory you probably wouldn’t have made me come all the way from England.”

He gave her a small smile. “I’m fine. It’s just…there have been some unexpected complications.”

She nodded seriously at him.

“How about if we head back to our hotel? I think our explanations are going to require some sitting down.”

“‘Our?’ Who’s the our?”

He licked his lips nervously. “Um, there may need to be some sitting down even before the explaining part. I sort of ran into an old…friend, I guess.”

Willow looked around, her gaze darting from one part of the crowd to the next. And then she caught sight of Angel, who gave her an awkward little wave. Her face went very pale. “Goddess,” she whispered. And, as she was absorbing the fact that Angel wasn’t dust, she must have noticed the way the late afternoon sun was shining in through the windows, picking up the luster of Angel’s non-combusting hair. Her mouth dropped open and her fingers dug into Xander’s shoulder. “He’s…that’s…oh, goddess!”

Angel approached cautiously. Maybe he thought Willow would turn him into a toad. From the look on her face, Xander wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t. But when Angel stopped a few feet away and looked at her from under his brow, she marched over to him and poked him in the chest. “You’re real!”

“Hi, Willow.”

“You’re really real and, and alive!”

Angel nodded.

Willow stared.

Xander decided that if he didn’t do something they’d end up standing there all day. So he took the handle of Willow’s suitcase in his left hand, slung his right arm around her shoulders, and began to steer her towards the door. “Someplace more comfortable, right? The sitting down and explaining place.”

They had to wait only a few minutes for the shuttle. It was crowded, though, so Xander and Willow just made minor chit-chat about her flight while Angel slumped silently in his seat. Back at the hotel, they determined that she wasn’t hungry and headed up to the room. She parked her suitcase next to the couch in the suite's living room and sat on the couch, a bottle of water in hand, while Xander and Angel scooted chairs into position across from her.

“This emergency, it doesn’t have to do with Angel being human again, does it? Because I’d have thought maybe that was a good thing.”

“It is,” Angel said. “Mostly. But that’s only indirectly why we’re here.”

So then they told her the whole story. It was mostly Angel who spoke, although Xander interrupted now and then. When Angel mentioned the wizard, he let slip the wizard’s first name, and Willow frowned a little. Her eyes went from Angel to Xander and back again, maybe noticing the easy way they sat in close proximity. Xander tracked her gaze as it wandered through the open doorway to the bedroom, where they each had a small suitcase beside the bed; Xander on the right and Angel on the left. Willow was a very smart woman. Xander could almost see the gears turning.

So he wasn’t surprised when Willow burst into the middle of Angel’s kind of long and drawn-out explanation of how he’d been magicked back to this dimension. “You!” she said. “You two are an 'our' and not just in a used-to-hate-each-other-but-now-we’re-platonic-buddies kind of way.”

Angel looked confused. But Xander spoke fluent Willow. “What she means, Angel, is that she’s just outed us.”

To Xander’s pleasant surprise, Angel didn’t look embarrassed or upset. He just nodded a little. “Oh. Yeah, okay.”

Willow blinked at them both.

“Will, Angel’s wizard was me. Well, not quite, I guess. He was alternate-universe-me. And they kind of had a thing, and then….”

Angel said, “We were lonely. We’re less lonely together.” Which was a succinct and accurate way of putting it, and somehow hearing those words from Angel’s mouth made Xander very happy. He reached over and squeezed the back of Angel’s hand, and Angel gave him a small, warm smile.

Willow just shook her head, not in denial, but in amazement. “Not that I don’t see the cute in you both—I’m gay, not blind—but not what I was expecting. But hey, I understand lonely, and if it’s working out, well, okay.” She grinned a little. “Buffy is going to die.”

Angel looked alarmed, and Xander waited for Angel to beg or command Willow not to tell Buffy about the two of them. But Angel said, “Don’t tell her I’m alive. Please. She’ll want to come marching in here to get in the middle of things and fight and…and it’s not a good idea. People will die. More people.”

Willow thought about that for a minute. “Okay. But later, I get to tell her. That’s the deal.”

Angel shrugged. “Fine. As long as Xander doesn’t mind.”

Xander couldn’t quite get over the fact that Angel didn’t seem embarrassed to be involved with either version of him. So he just nodded a little and said, “Me and Angel, really not the point, Will. Can we get back on track?”

So they did, with Angel and Xander filling her in on the rest. When they were finished, Willow looked a little overwhelmed and a lot exhausted—it was who-knows-what-in-the-morning in England—but Xander could tell she had on her thinking cap. “So Angel points me in Spike’s general direction, I magic myself and Xander there, we swoop in and grab Spike, and then back to planet Earth. Right?”

Angel and Xander exchanged a quick glance. “Yeah, that’s about it,” Angel said.

“And I’m sure it’ll all be that simple, too,” Xander added with an eye roll.

Willow tapped the empty water bottle against her palm. “Even if it is that simple, it doesn’t solve your lawyer problems.”

“I know,” said Angel. “I’ll work on that while you’re gone. And I’m kinda hoping Spike will want to help out when he’s back. But one problem at a time, okay?”

She nodded. “Okay. But I reserve the right to mull that one over while we’re off-world.”

“Does that mean you’ll help us?”

“I wouldn’t want to be a party-pooper for the rescue mission, would I?”

Angel slumped in his chair with relief. Xander didn’t understand why he himself felt relieved as well. Shouldn’t he be wishing this whole thing would come to nothing and he could avoid inter-dimensional travel? But no, for reasons that evaded him completely he now wanted to save Spike, too. “Do you think you can do it, Will? I’m guessing we’re talking some pretty major mojo here.”

“I can do it,” she said confidently. “I’m going to have to do a little research and pick up some supplies, though.”

By then it was past dinnertime and Willow was yawning almost continuously. Angel called down to book another room, but the hotel was full up. There was a brief discussion about switching to another hotel, which ended abruptly when Willow fell asleep on the couch. Xander gently pulled off her shoes, then found a blanket in the closet and tucked it around her. He and Angel went down to the lobby, where they each ordered a burger at the hotel’s restaurant.

“Willow’s something else,” Angel said. He had a dab of ketchup by the corner of his lip, and Xander had a nearly overwhelming urge to lean over the table and lick it off.

“Yeah. She really is.”

Angel looked down at his plate for a few moments and then played with the salt shaker. Xander had grown to know him well enough over the past few days to know the man was trying to say something, so Xander chewed patiently and watched a pair of businessmen at the bar as they bickered over something.

Finally, Angel got up the nerve to spit it out. “I don’t know what time you’re traveling to, or how different things will be from here.”

“So it could be, like dinosaurs? Or maybe personal jetpacks and colonies on the moon? Or what if earth’s just a primordial swamp or a dead hunk of rock?”

“Alex said it’s really hard to send a person to any time when they weren’t around in this world. So Spike’s probably somewhere between the mid-nineteenth century and now. Alex said he’s probably somewhere in North America, too.”

“Well, I guess that narrows it down. But Willow and I were born in 1982. Can we go back any farther than that?”

“I don’t know. Alex seemed to think it would work. Maybe Willow can pull it off—she’s a pretty strong witch.”

“‘Pulling things off’ is probably not a phrase you want to use around Willow when she’s in a witchy mood.”

Angel looked puzzled.

“Never mind,” Xander said. “It was a joke in poor taste.”

Angel leaned forward. “I’m not joking about this. I had a hard time adjusting to life in that other dimension and I was around in the nineteenth century. I remember how people did things then. You…you may have to do a lot of adjusting.” He made an aggrieved face. “Be careful, all right?”

Xander bit back a sarcastic retort because Angel looked like he really meant it.

 

***

 

They’d spent another night at the Embassy Suites. Then Angel had begun to worry about Wolfram &amp; Hart, so they’d moved across the Bay to the Oakland Marriott, where Angel had rented them a two-room suite and where Willow had placed some kind of ward to deflect nosy demon lawyers. Then she’d spent three days researching and gathering supplies. The men didn’t have much to occupy their time. They’d spent quite a while at the bookstore in Jack London Square, and poking around the shops in Chinatown (where Angel chatted with the shopkeepers in Cantonese), and watching the ships sail in and out. When Willow left the hotel to buy stuff, Xander and Angel would tumble into bed with one another. Willow didn’t mention anything about their furtive trysts, but Xander was pretty sure she knew what was going on. She always managed to return to the room at least five minutes after they’d put their clothes back on. But now they were all getting pretty antsy and Oakland had lost its charms.

Willow looked up from her laptop screen and smiled at Xander. “I’m just about there. A couple more hours and we’re good to go.”

Angel and Xander were sitting on the couch; Angel was reading something in German and Xander was watching _The Matrix_ on TV. Xander’s stomach clenched at Willow’s words but he tried to smile. “That’s great, Will.”

She said, “You know, Angel, whoever sent you away didn’t have a whole lot of finesse. If they’d tried hard enough they could have zapped your clothing along with you. You might have looked kind of strange to people in the 1890s, but better weird clothing than none.”

Xander sighed slightly in relief. He hadn’t been looking forward to the whole nudity portion of the trip.

But Angel perked up even more. “Does that mean you can take things with you?”

“Not a lot, but sure. I’m going to bring a bagful of stuff that might come in handy.”

“Just a minute.”

Angel went into the other room, where Xander heard him rummaging around in his suitcase. He came back with his hands full. “Here,” he said, dumping the objects onto the table. Xander got up to go look.

Xander and Willow both gasped. It was a small fortune’s worth of jewelry: heavy gold rings inset with precious stones, several gold chains, a pair of ugly but no doubt very expensive diamond earrings.

“We’ll certainly be the best-accessorized dimensional travelers,” Xander said.

Angel gave him that familiar, exasperated look. Xander was becoming quite fond of that look. “They’re not to look pretty,” Angel said. “Our cash is probably useless where you’re going, but this stuff is always worth something. You can sell it when you get there.”

Willow’s finger had inched forward to poke at a ring. “I…I can’t take this from you, Angel.”

“You’ll probably need it. Besides, you’re on my errand, aren’t you? And I have plenty.”

Xander said, “What did you do? Rob Tiffany’s?”

“I’ve been around a while. I’ve learned to stash things away for a rainy day. These, well, let’s just say their owners are no longer around to miss them.”

Xander decided he didn’t want to know any more details.

Willow snapped her laptop shut, stood, and stretched. “I think maybe I’ll go spend the next, um, 90 minutes at the Starbucks across the street. A little change of scenery.” She gave them a mischievous grin, and both men blushed.

When she’d gone, giggling slightly as she closed the door, Xander turned to Angel. “Looks like Will thinks we should be having a little going-away nooky.”

Angel grabbed Xander’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Nothing little about it,” he said into Xander’s ear. His voice was a sort of growling purr that made the hair on the back of Xander’s neck stand up. That wasn’t the only part of him rising to attention, either. Until Angel, Xander had never had a partner with a physique larger than his own. But Angel was taller and heavier and, even now that he was human, probably stronger as well. Xander didn’t mind. In the brief periods when he was enfolded in Angel’s arms, he felt safe. Maybe that was stupid but he couldn’t help it, and it was a pretty nice feeling to have.

They drew apart and it was Xander who led the way into their bedroom. The maid had been by already and the comforter was pulled neatly over the bed. Xander pushed the extra pillows onto the floor, while Angel yanked the blankets back. They watched each other undress. There was a small note of urgency this time, not because of Willow’s time limit, but because of the unstated knowledge that this could very well be the Last Time. It was a feeling Xander had had more than once before. He didn’t like it.

He was relieved when they were both nude. Angel’s body was magnificent. He’d even managed to pick up a little tan, so his face and arms were dark next to the paler olive tones of his chest and legs. His cock was already hard, jutting expectantly from dark brown curls, his balls heavy-looking between muscular thighs. He smiled that breathtaking smile and reached for the bedside table, where the bottle of Fruity Booty was waiting. Angel had sighed melodramatically when Xander brought that particular brand back to their room, but Xander figured that was the price he paid for making Xander do the shopping at Good Vibrations. Apparently 250-year-old former vampires were too embarrassed to browse in sex toy shops.

Now, though, Angel seemed to be okay with the stuff. He tossed the bottle to Xander, climbed up on the bed on all fours, and waved his ass a little. “Clock’s ticking,” he said.

Xander scurried over and knelt behind Angel. He set the lube on the mattress and spent a few minutes just admiring the view, and then running his hands over all that smooth skin. He liked the way Angel would shiver and twitch at first, as if the touches were mildly irritating, but then his tense muscles would relax and he’d widen his stance a little and start arching up against Xander’s palm. In all his years, he’d never bottomed before, but when they were in Clovis, Xander had persuaded him to give it a try. Now Angel seemed to actually prefer it. Xander didn’t much care, one way or the other. Top or bottom, it was all good to him.

When Angel was making tiny, needy little moans and Xander’s cock was demanding a participatory role, Xander finally uncapped the orange bottle and drizzled a little into the cleft of Angel’s ass. He watched the thick liquid trickle down and then stuck out a single finger and used it to trace the little rosette of puckered flesh. When he actually inserted his finger, Angel groaned loudly and pushed back, further impaling himself. But when Xander grinned evilly and used his free hand—the one with three fingers—to slap one of those rounded cheeks, he heard Angel’s breath actually catch in his throat. “God, Xander, more,” said a mouth that Xander would have bet anything, several years back, would never say any such thing.

So Xander spanked him several more times, simultaneously moving his finger in and out, pressing the pad of it against the little knob that made Angel’s entire body quiver. Xander felt the muscles around his finger loosen and he added a second one. Angel got bossy again. “More!” he said into his pillow.

That was fine. Xander had waited long enough. He withdrew his fingers, repositioned himself slightly, and pressed the head of his cock against and then into Angel’s entrance. As slowly as he could, he tilted his hips until he was fully sheathed and their breaths were loud and raspy.

It felt wonderful to be gripped in Angel’s hot, tight channel. The visuals only added to the fun: Angel’s slightly reddened rump, the long spine that led to broad shoulders, the tattoo that wouldn’t let Xander forget for even one second who he was fucking. Xander knew from recent experience that this wouldn’t take long for either of them. He might have been embarrassed, but then Angel was just as quick on the draw, and it all seemed to fit well with the general speed and urgency of their relationship.

Very soon, Xander found himself moving quickly, his fingers digging into Angel’s hips while his own hips rocked back and forth. Angel had collapsed his upper body onto the bed and was using his right hand to jack himself at the same furious tempo. The entire bed was shaking, but Xander had to hand it to the Marriott—the bedsprings were very quiet.

Angel slammed back against him especially hard, then froze. His roar was only partially muffled by the pillow, and his entire body shuddered as his muscles squeezed Xander’s orgasm right out of him.

Angel’s legs went flat and straight. Xander collapsed too and lay over Angel’s back like a blanket. He was still inside Angel, their skin stuck together by sweat. Xander licked at the thick neck beneath him, then nibbled lightly at Angel’s shoulder. “I wonder what you’d have been like as a vampire,” Angel said.

“I can’t tell you the number of times we’ve almost found out.”

They both groaned a little as Xander rolled off, and out of, Angel so that they were side by side. Angel turned his head to look into Xander’s eye. “You can still change your mind,” he said.

“You’re the guy that was begging me to go.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I still…. Thinking of Spike trapped somewhere….”

“I know. It’s okay. Throwing ourselves blindly—or in my case, half-blindly—into impossible situations, it’s kind of what we do. Don’t let the lawyers get you while I’m gone, okay?”

“I’ll do my best. Xander, these past few days….”

“Hey, I know. I’m not Alex, but a reasonable temporary substitute.”

“You’re not a substitute for anything. But the things I lo—I liked about Alex, the qualities that made me admire him, you have them, too.”

Xander smiled. “No beard, though.”

“The eyepatch is a reasonable alternative.”

 

***

 

When Willow got back, they were freshly showered and combed and shaved and were sitting on the couch again, half-watching something with Clint Eastwood in it. Xander was wearing the most era-neutral outfit he could manage: khaki pants, a light blue button-down shirt, short black boots. Willow smiled at them as she entered the suite. “You guys look…relaxed.”

Xander refused to blush again. “How goes the prep work?”

“Prepped. We can go whenever.”

Xander stood. “No time like the present. Or the past, I guess. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

She set her laptop down on the table and turned to Angel, whose brow was deeply furrowed. “You’ll keep an eye on my computer and my other stuff, right?”

“Of course. And when you get back—”

“We’ll call you,” interrupted Xander. “Just remember to charge your cell, okay?”

Angel looked a little sheepish. “Yeah.”

Xander had a sudden thought. “Will, did you tell Buffy you were going away?”

“Yep. I said you and I had a secret mission and we’d probably be gone for a while but she shouldn’t worry. I think she’s kinda pissed at me for not filling her in on the details, but that’s okay. She can’t slay me while we’re gone.”

“And, I hope, we’ll be back pronto with a hell of a story to tell her. Okay, what do we have to do, Will? Incense and chanting?”

“Nope. This is high techier.” She held up a small item.

“An iPhone? You’re gonna text us to another dimension?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not really an iPhone anymore. I hacked it. I already did the spells, and all I have to do to invoke the spell is press a couple of buttons.”

“Wow. You’re a twenty-first century witch. How do we get back, though? Are you taking the ex-phone with?” That made him uneasy. What if they lost it or it got broken? Not a lot of Apple stores in the nineteenth century.

“I only need it to begin things. The return part involves some chanting.”

“Oh,” he said with a sigh of relief. He looked over at Angel, who was still hunched awkwardly on the couch. “Then let’s go.”

“Wait!” Angel jumped to his feet. He strode quickly toward them. “Do you have the jewelry?”

Willow and Xander both nodded. They had split it between them, for safety’s sake. They were each wearing a couple of pieces but the rest was stashed in various pockets. Xander even had a necklace wrapped around one ankle, hidden under a sock.

“Good,” said Angel. “And, um….” He grabbed Xander and jammed their mouths together in a kiss that made Xander’s toes curl. When they separated again, Angel said very clearly, “Be careful.”

A moment later, Willow pressed the buttons.

  
[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/167729.html)

 

  



	7. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 7/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

_   
**Madhouse (7 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cxpcr/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Seven  
**

 

When William Pratt’s Great-Uncle George was a young man and studying to be a physician, he and a few fellow scholars had taken a tour of Bethlehem Hospital. Much later, when Great-Uncle George was in his cups, he would tell stories of what he had seen. Young William wasn’t meant to be present, of course, but he’d sit at the top of the steps, wide-eyed, and listen to George’s booming voice. Sometimes he’d have nightmares afterward, and he wouldn’t tell his mother why.

None of those nightmares were even remotely as horrible as his current reality.

Spike had spent an immeasurable time in the padded cell, lost in a haze of despair. His body was clearly no longer his own and, he feared, soon his mind would not belong to him either. A part of him whispered that it would be better to allow this to happen without a fight, to succumb to the gentle seduction of insanity.

Dunham and Reynolds opened the cell periodically and unstrapped his trousers. They ordered him to squat over a bucket, then cleaned him with a damp towel and changed his dressings. After the trousers were back on, they gave him a cup of water to drink and a bowl of gruel. And then they placed him back in the cell.

The light never went out, and he hadn’t any idea how much time was passing. Sometimes he thought about the past—pleasant memories from childhood, brilliant battles he’d fought—and sometimes he recited lessons he’d learned over a century ago or wrote epic poems in his head, but most often he tried to think of nothing at all.

At last—perhaps at long last—when the aching and itching in his groin had subsided, Dunham and Reynolds removed the straitjacket as well as the trousers. It was bloody brilliant just to be able to move his arms again, even if now they were shackled to his waist. The orderlies led him down the hallway. He kept his head bowed, watching his dirty feet pass over scuffed linoleum. He didn’t look up until they paused in front of a large, ornate wooden door. Dunham knocked on it. From inside, a voice called, “Enter.”

They were in Giles’s office. It was a large room with loads of heavy, dark furniture. Tall bookcases were jammed with books. There were several paintings on the wall, mostly of garden scenes. Spike recognized one of them as the Marble Arch in Hyde Park. Several big windows in the office looked out over an expansive lawn. Spike caught his breath at his first sight of the out of doors since the day he’d arrived in this place, and then shuddered when he realized that the trees were glorious reds and yellows. Several months must have passed. The floor of the office was highly polished wood covered in several places by thick Persian carpets in reds and blues. The room smelled of tobacco and bergamot and leather, and Spike felt especially naked there.

Giles himself was sitting behind an enormous desk, writing in a book. A cup of tea was near his hand and a cozy-covered teapot, a spoon, and a silver sugar bowl lay on a tray off to the side. There was an ashtray as well, and a gold lighter next to a packet of cigarettes. Reynolds and Dunham stood silently on either side of Spike, waiting patiently. Spike bit at his lip. He wanted to say something—wanted to say a great many things, in fact—but he didn’t fancy having that bloody gag stuffed in his mouth again. Or worse.

Finally, Giles looked up at them. He pasted a slightly surprised look on his face, as if he weren’t perfectly aware that they’d been there the whole time. “Ah. He’s ready to move to the ward, is he?”

“He looks pretty good to me, doctor,” Dunham replied.

Giles stood and walked around the desk. He straightened his glasses and gave Spike a long look. Spike tried to look defiant but failed. Then Giles put out his hand and grasped Spike’s penis. Spike reflexively tried to jerk away, but the orderlies held him still. Giles prodded at him a bit, turning his penis this way and that, lifting his scrotum. Then he let Spike go and addressed Dunham. “Very well. He’s mended nicely. I’m not certain how well he’s learnt to behave himself, however, so keep him secured for now.”

“Sure thing, doctor.”

After that, it seemed, they were dismissed.

They walked for ages down the hallways again. Dunham and Reynolds chatted with each other about an early blizzard that was expected that night. They stopped in front of a door and Dunham unlocked it. Spike immediately balked when he saw what was inside, but the orderlies grabbed his arms and hauled him in.

They were back in the room he’d first seen when he arrived, the shower room that led the dark cell with the cold tile floor. “No!” he said, struggling with his captors. But poor diet and lack of exercise had left him weak, and the orderlies had little difficulty in dragging him across the room and stringing him up in familiar chains. Still, he continued to twist and yank feebly at his bonds. He hadn’t realized until that moment how hopeful the talk of being moved to a ward had made him.

Dunham gave Spike’s arse a stinging slap. “Cut it out! Stay still!”

“Bloody tossers. Sick fucks, so sodding brave so long as your victim’s chained and half-starved.”

But Spike went very still when Dunham grabbed his bollocks in one huge hand and squeezed. “Shut up!” said the orderly. “Another word and in goes the gag.”

Spike snarled, but managed to hold his tongue. He hated the gag even more than the other restraints. It made him feel like little more than a dumb beast.

When Dunham was satisfied with Spike’s obedience, he released his grip. Spike’s balls began to throb immediately. But he didn’t have much time to think about that, because Dunham was moving around behind him and gripping Spike’s hair, forcing Spike’s head backwards a bit. Something metallic made a sinister snicking sound. Dunham tugged some more, and Spike realized that the man was cutting Spike’s hair. Spike was actually pleased about that. His hair had grown into a filthy, matted mess that itched constantly. With the straitjacket on, he hadn’t even been able to scratch his head. When Spike’s bicolored locks littered the ground at his feet, Dunham took up a safety razor instead and scraped Spike’s head bare. The room’s air felt very chill on the newly denuded skin.

But Spike became much colder still when Reynolds washed him down thoroughly with the hose. Spike was still dripping and violently shivering when they unhooked him from the ceiling and floor and replaced his hobble and waist chain. But he managed to feel very relieved when, instead of shoving him into his old cell, the men pushed him out of the room.

Spike had not been able to get any sense of the building’s floor plan. It seemed to be deliberately convoluted and confusing. Perhaps the architect himself had been a lunatic. But now, Spike reckoned that they were traveling corridors that were new to him. His suspicion was confirmed when Dunham unlocked a set of double doors, behind which rose a staircase. The stone stairs were heavily worn, so that they dipped noticeably toward their middles. The orderlies’ footsteps echoed loudly as the three of them ascended; Spike’s own bare feet made only a whisper.

Once Dunham unlocked the doors at the top of the stairs, they had only a short walk before they came to yet another door. A gray-haired man in a guard’s uniform sat at a desk outside this door. He nodded at the orderlies and gave Spike a long, slit-eyed look. Spike stared defiantly back.

Eventually, still without saying a word, the man stood and unlocked the door. Dunham and Reynolds shoved Spike inside, into a scene straight from his Great-Uncle George’s stories.

What struck Spike first was the din: scores and scores of voices laughing and crying, babbling nonsense or wailing or just making feral sounds. The noises bounced madly about the room until they almost seemed to constitute an entity themselves. The smell hit him immediately afterward. The room reeked of urine and shit, of sweat, of caustic cleaning fluids, of hopelessness.

The room itself was enormous, wide and very long, with a ceiling perhaps thirty feet high. The walls and ceiling were stone and the floor was that ubiquitous worn linoleum. Windows were set along both of the long walls, very high up, so that the only things visible were patches of cloudy sky. Although there were light fixtures set into the walls as well, the bulbs were off, so that the windows provided the room’s only light.

There were four doors, two at either end of the room. They were big doors, formidable-looking.

Inside the room, there were men. Perhaps two hundred of them, Spike estimated. They ranged from boys in their teens to ancient, wizened old men, although a majority of them were of some indeterminate age in the middle. Many of them sported scars or physical deformities. A few dozen of the men were chained to heavy metal brackets set into the walls. The rest were allowed to roam freely about. Many of them did just that, milling aimlessly here and there or walking circuits that they had probably walked for many years, like automatons in a track. Other men sat or hunched or squatted on the floor. Some of them stared expressionlessly at nothing at all or hid their faces behind their hands. Others gibbered or sobbed or cackled. Here and there, pairs or small groups of men sat or stood together, talking quietly or simply huddling together as if for comfort. Most of the men were, like Spike, naked, although several wore tattered rags, and a few were strapped into straitjackets but were bare from the waist down.

Near the center of the room was a row of four toilets. Three of them were in use, the men sitting on them without a shred of privacy. In fact, some of the other patients watched intently as the men shat, as if the activity were prime entertainment.

There were orderlies in the room as well, nine or ten big men in white. Some were pushing mops, lazily cleaning up foul messes made by the inmates, and others simply stood against the wall and watched. One of them was trying to calm a shrieking, naked young man. The patient kept screaming, “If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out!” and trying to claw at his face, where there were already deep, bloody furrows.

Dunham and Reynolds each grasped one of Spike’s elbows and moved him through the chaos. Most of the patients paid them little mind, although Spike noticed that they all shied away from the orderlies like wary animals. Some of the patients stopped and stared at Spike, but he didn’t feel threatened by their inspection.

The orderlies plunked Spike down on the only available toilet. The seat was encrusted with filth. “Use it,” growled Dunham. Spike’s bladder and bowels had learned to be obedient, and they emptied themselves on command. Then Spike was yanked to his feet again and taken to one of the walls. The men pushed him down into a seated position with his back against the wall.

Quickly and efficiently, as if they’d done it a thousand times before, they removed Spike’s fetters and attached his ankles and wrists to the chains that hung from the wall. The chains weren’t very long. They’d permit him to stand and take perhaps one step, but that was all. He noticed that he was spaced well out of reach of the miserable creatures shackled on either side of him. Not that it seemed to matter, as both of them appeared lost in their own desolation.

Dunham bent and grabbed Spike’s chin, forcing Spike to look at him. “If you’re a very, very good boy, we’ll let you out of those chains some day. If you’re naughty, Willy, we have punishments instead. Now, me? I’m kinda hoping you’re naughty.”

With some difficulty, Spike resisted the urge to bite the man’s fingers off.

Soon after the orderlies went away, a small crowd of patients gathered in a semicircle around Spike, just out of his reach. They goggled at him as he hunched on the floor. Two of them wanked absently at their erect pricks, which looked red and raw. Another of them, a tiny man with nearly blue-black skin and something unsettling about his eyes, cocked his head. “You don’t belong here,” he said to Spike.

“Don’t want to be here, mate,” Spike replied.

“You ain’t from around here.”

Spike laughed bitterly. “No, I’m not.”

The man looked at him a bit longer, then nodded. He tapped a finger under his own left eye. “You got to wait for the boy.”

“Right.” No point in arguing with madmen.

“That boy gonna get you free.”

“That’d be lovely.”

“Ain’t gonna be a easy wait, but he gonna come.”

“Cheers.”

The man looked as if he meant to say something more, but then an orderly appeared. The orderly boxed one of the masturbating men on the ear. “Cut it out, Frankie, or we’re gonna put the jacket on you again.” Frankie yelped and the little crowd quickly dispersed. The orderly glared at Spike for a moment as if it were his fault, and then walked away.

Spike drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He settled his chin on his knees and then simply watched.

 

***

 

Several hours later, a bell clanged. As soon as it did, most of the unbound inmates rushed into a ragged line near one of the doors. The orderlies prodded and tugged and nudged at the patients who remained wandering or sitting around, until they were in line as well. A few of them had to be nearly carried, while the catatonic ones allowed themselves to be towed along like bits of baggage. As they queued, most of the patients shuffled anxiously from foot to foot.

The door swung open. Two men entered, each wheeling a large, multi-shelved cart. Spike reckoned they must be inmates as well, although ones with more privileges, because they were dressed in loose-fitting greyish pajamas. One cart contained metal bowls and the other metal cups. The two men worked their way down the line, giving each person a bowl and a cup. As soon as each patient received them, he scurried away to eat and drink, although the orderlies had to assist some of them. A few simply seemed to enjoy spilling their food on the floor or smearing it on the walls, but the orderlies quickly stopped them and cuffed them soundly.

The carts were empty when they were about halfway down the line. The inmates in charge wheeled them back to the closed door, which opened and then shut behind them. About five minutes later they entered again with laden carts.

Once the entire line had been fed, the men turned to the patients who were chained to the walls. The one who brought Spike’s meal handed the metal containers to him with a sad, sweet smile that very nearly made Spike cry. Instead, Spike tipped the bowl to his mouth. It contained a greasy, bland soup of some kind, with mysterious bits floating on top and chunks of overboiled vegetables sunk on the bottom. Still, Spike ate it all. He was hungry. Then he drained the mug, which contained tepid, iron-tasting water.

The orderlies watched carefully as most of the inmates piled their dirty dishes on the trays. The two men in pajamas collected the rest, including the ones from Spike and the others who were shackled. The door opened again, and they wheeled the carts away.

About ten minutes later, the same two patients returned. This time they carried metal buckets. They brought the buckets to each of the men along the wall and waited patiently as the men pissed or shat into them. When the buckets became full, the men emptied them into the toilets.

The same man who had fed Spike brought him his bucket. He had the short stature and epicanthic eyes of Down Syndrome. He was quite young, Spike thought, perhaps still in his teens. He turned his head politely as Spike urinated into the bucket and then, before taking the bucket away and moving on to the next patient, leaned in close and whispered, “I’m Robby.” It was Spike who then had to turn his head away as well as clench his jaw tight, all because this poor bloke had treated him like a person.

 

***

 

Sometime later when the sky outside had grown dark and the lights had flickered on, the bell rang again, and the mealtime process was repeated. This time they all got a chunk of hard bread in addition to the soup. Spike nibbled slowly at it, enjoying his first chance in ages to sink his teeth into anything solid. Then he used the bucket again, silently cursing human biology for the hundredth time. Before Robby left, he snuck in an awkward little pat on Spike’s shoulder and Spike smiled back at the boy.

Not long after Robby and his colleague had left, the bell rang for a third time. The patients seemed less willing to line up this time, and the orderlies had to engage in significantly more urging to get them to go. After several minutes, the door opened and the line of men snaked its way slowly through, accompanied by all but two of the orderlies.

The orderlies returned a bit later. In pairs, they approached the chained men and transferred each from the wall shackles to hobbles and waist chains. They took the bound men away, then returned later to repeat the process. Spike was in the fifth group to be moved this way, and it was Reynolds and Dunham once again who escorted him out of the room and down the stairs. They didn’t stop on the ground floor, however, but instead went farther down and through two more locked doors, into another vast room. This one had a rather low ceiling, however, and only very thin slivers of window at the top of the walls. Although nobody could possibly have fit through the windows, each was covered by a heavy metal grating. The room was crammed with narrow metal cots set so close together that a person would have to get on or off by climbing in at the foot. Each cot contained a thin mattress, a sheet and blanket, a pillow, and a patient. Many of the patients were already fast asleep, although some tossed and turned a bit. Spike himself felt very slow and sleepy. He suspected their dinner had been drugged, but didn’t really mind. He rather welcomed the brief oblivion of sleep.

This room reeked even more badly than the dayroom. There were two toilets near the only door, and a few dim lights behind iron cages on the walls.

Spike was led off to one side. The beds here were simply bare mattresses. They pushed Spike onto one, then chained his ankles and wrists to the bedposts. He could move his arms and feet only a few inches, and wouldn’t even be able to turn onto his side. Still, the mattress gave him more comfort than he’d had in his first cell, and he had a bit more freedom to move his arms than in the padded cell. Reynolds reached down, gave Spike’s defenseless cock a hard squeeze, and then went away.

Spike fell asleep as they were still chaining patients to their beds.

  
[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/168711.html)

 

﻿  



	8. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 8/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (8 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ch0zd/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Eight  
**

 

Xander turned his head and puked, staggered a few steps, and then for good measure, puked again. Willow just stood and watched, rolling her eyes, but she looked a little green around the gills, too.

He spat twice and wiped the back of his arm across his mouth. “I’ve been on some pretty wild rides before, but that takes the cake.”

“Hey! You try dragging two people across dimensions without having them arrive in little molecular bits.”

“Okay. Point.” He looked down at himself. “Only the usual parts missing, at least. Are you gonna be able to bring three of us back?”

She shrugged. “I think so. I should be better with a little practice. Besides, our home reality should kind of suck us back, like a magnet.”

“Peachy.” He looked around them. “Any clue where we are?” Well, he had some clues himself. The field they’d apparated into contained neat lines of trellised grapevines, each with bright-green new growth. An orchard stood across a dusty road, with a tiny stucco house tucked off to one side. In the other direction, far off in the distance, was a line of snow-capped mountains.

Willow was rummaging in the green backpack she’d brought. “It’s probably California somewhere. I tried to get us as close as possible to where we started.”

That made sense. “Okay. _When_ are we?”

“I don’t know.” She knelt and dropped a handful of small stones into the weedy spot between two grapevines. She chanted a few words in a language that sounded like it had never heard of consonants, and a glowing sort of map thing appeared on the ground.

“Pretty,” Xander said.

She peered at her map. “Okay. We’re here.” She pointed at a spot roughly in the middle of California, where there was a tiny green light. Not far from Xander’s beloved house, actually. Only in another dimension.

“And Spike?”

“Just a sec.” She took a small white envelope out of her pack and shook something from it onto her palm. At Xander’s puzzled look, she said, “Spike’s hair. Angel had a lock of it stashed away. Isn’t that sweet?” Then a stricken look crossed her face. “Um, I’m sure the two of them were, like, a long time ago, way before you and Angel—”

“It’s okay, Will. Angel loves Spike. I know that. Why else would he be so anxious to save him?”

She relaxed a little. Then she sprinkled the hairs onto her map. A new glowing dot formed, this one red. It buzzed over the map for a few seconds like a firefly and then alit in the middle.

“Spike’s in Iowa?” Xander asked.

Willow shot him a look. “That’s Illinois. Let’s see….” She wiggled one finger and the whole map zoomed in around Spike’s dot, just like clicking the plus button on Google Maps. She wiggled some more, until she could tell the specific location, then sat back on her heels. “Peoria.”

“What’s Spike doing there?”

“The map tells me where, Xander, not why.”

“How about when?”

She shook her head. “Nope. But we can probably figure that out for ourselves without magic, I think.”

So they began to walk. They walked for a long time, their feet kicking up little puffs of dust on the road as they went, and although it was clearly still spring, the sun began to feel hot on the back of Xander’s neck. He was relieved when he heard the rumble of an engine. They turned around and saw a haze of dirt that soon revealed an approaching truck. Xander whistled when he saw it. Unless the owner of the truck was a classic-car aficionado, they were no longer anywhere near the twenty-first century. The gray truck had a tall, narrow front grille, wide running boards, and a split windscreen. Well, at least they’d arrived after cars were invented.

Xander and Willow stepped to the side of the road, and the truck pulled to a stop beside them. The driver had a thin, sun-weathered face and wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, a plaid shirt, and canvas overalls. “Need a ride into town, folks?”

Xander and Willow glanced at each other, both clearly remembering every slasher movie and campfire horror story about what happens to hitchhikers, not to mention their personal Sunnydale knowledge regarding the dangers of over-friendly strangers. But it might be a long walk to town, and Xander figured that a semi-retired demon fighter and a powerful witch could take on one old farmer. “That’d be great,” Xander said. “Thanks.”

They climbed in beside him, with Willow in the middle. The man smiled at them and continued on down the road.

“You folks ain’t from ‘round here,” he said.

“No, sir,” Xander replied as politely as possible.

“You ain’t looking for work, are you? ‘Cause there’s not much, not this time of year.”

“No, we’ve been, uh, visiting distant relatives,” Willow said. “It was sort of a honeymoon. But now we need to head back home. We got a pho—um, a telegram that says my grandma’s sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, young lady. Whereabouts are you two from? I ain’t never seen clothing like yours.”

“Chicago,” said Willow.

“Ah,” the old man said, like that explained everything.

They bumped and rattled on for about fifteen minutes, with the man prattling on about the price of chickenfeed and wasn’t it lucky that someone had finally shot that troublemaking Hitler fellow and they’d had such a dry winter he was worried there wouldn’t be enough irrigation water available this summer. Xander and Willow responded politely, both trying not to let their ignorance show.

“What happened to that eye of yours, young man?” their driver asked at one point.

Xander had an array of stock explanations, and he considered which might be appropriate for the era. “Explosion. We were demolishing this old building, and my buddy didn’t set the dynamite right. Lost some fingers, too.” He held up the affected hand.

“That’s too bad. It might’ve have kept you outta the action if we’d had to go to war.”

Willow patted Xander’s leg. “I’m sure my Xander would have done plenty for the home front.”

The driver smiled at them. “My Ida and me been married almost forty years. You want to know the secret of a long and happy marriage, young man?”

“Um, sure.”

“The little lady is always right. Just remember that.” He cackled at his joke, and Xander and Willow laughed politely.

They arrived in town at last. Xander didn’t see a sign announcing where they were, but it was clearly no major metropolis. Downtown was just a few streets of one- and two-story buildings, exactly like the downtown of every city in the Central Valley. But they’d bumped over a set of railroad tracks as they arrived, and that meant a way out.

Their benefactor dropped them off on a corner in front of a J.C. Penney’s, wished them well, and rattled away.

Xander turned to Willow. “A plan? I’m guessing jumbo jets are out of the question.”

“Let’s sell something and get some period clothes and some traveling money. Then we can check out train schedules.”

They did just that. There was a jewelry store a block and a half down. The man there gave them a suspicious look when Willow handed him one of their rings, but Willow was her very cutest, and she told a slightly embellished version of the dying grandmother story. The ring, she said, had been her grandfather’s, and he’d certainly understand her using it to finance a trip back to see his beloved Louisa.

The jeweler softened a bit under Willow’s charm and examined the ring closely. “Your grandfather must have been a wealthy man,” he said at last.

“Oh, not really. But he used to say that _his_ father had a lot of money, once upon a time. I suppose this came from back then.”

“Well, I can’t give you nearly as much as it’s worth. If you were to take it to San Francisco, you could get a good deal more for it. But this isn’t San Francisco.”

Xander looked out the windows at the quiet street. “No, it isn’t,” he muttered.

The jeweler scratched his balding head. “I can give you two hundred for it.”

Xander and Willow looked at each other. Neither of them had any idea how far two hundred dollars would get them. Willow pouted a little and sagged her shoulders. “Oh. I was hoping it was going to be a little more. We have to get all the way to Chicago, and—”

The jeweler sighed. “Two-fifty.”

She perked up. “We’ll take it.”

Their pockets bulging with cash, they made their way to the train station. Several minutes of consultation later, they were $150 poorer but had a pair of tickets to LA, where they’d switch to the Santa Fe Super Chief, getting them to Chicago in less than 48 hours. The woman at the ticket booth assured them that the train was the very latest in comfort and speed.

They had a few hours to kill before they left town. So they headed first to Latif’s Diner, where they spent two bucks apiece on a roast beef dinner and iced tea. Afterwards, they wandered down the street with full bellies. They went to Penney’s and bought a small carpetbag, a dress for Willow that she made faces over, and a pair of pants and plain white shirt for Xander. That just about cleaned them out, but Willow said they’d probably have time to sell something else while they waited in LA to switch trains.

By then, it was time to climb on board. Xander liked traveling by train—there was more room to move around than on airplanes or in cars, there was a kind of retro feeling to it, and you got to see the countryside. Except they’d been here only a short time and he’d already had plenty of the retro, thank you very much. There wasn’t much to see as the train chugged along, either. Dusty fields, tiny little towns, gas stations in the middle of nowhere with rusting jalopies beside them and people in ragged clothing standing out front. The other passengers all looked tired and worn, like they’d been fighting some kind of battle for a long time and never expected it to end.

After a while, Xander fell asleep. He dreamt of building a house that was never finished.

He awoke shortly before they arrived in LA. Willow was asleep, slumped over with her head on his shoulder and her mouth slightly open. She looked very young. But she woke up just in time to see the signs proclaiming arrival at the brand new Union Station.

They both headed for the bathrooms, and emerged with their teeth and hair brushed and their scratchy new clothing on. Willow was making a face. “I’m not much of a vintage clothes fan, even when they’re not so vintagey,” she said.

There was a restaurant tucked away inside the station, an Art Deco place with a big, rounded bar. After several minutes of argument, which Willow won, Xander ended up sitting at a booth with breakfast and a newspaper in front of him. “Your job is to figure out what’s going on in the world,” Willow informed him. “Get caught up on current events.” He nodded grumpily and took a bite of toast. Willow went off to find a taxi. She wanted to go to one of the nicer parts of the city to sell more of Angel’s jewelry.

Xander hadn’t paid much attention in history class. Wait. Scratch that. Xander hadn’t paid much attention in _any_ classes. But history was definitely one of the things he hadn’t paid attention to, and so he really had only the vaguest ideas of what 1939 was like in his world. Because that’s what it was, according to the _LA Times_. March 18, 1939. And since he didn’t know what had happened in his world, it was hard to figure out what was different in this one. Some things were obvious even to him, though. Apparently, Hitler had been assassinated a few months ago. With him gone, the Nazis had been losing steam and it looked as if Germany was going to have free elections soon. The Soviets, though, were making menacing noises and there seemed to be concern that they might invade westward, and the Japanese had invaded China. Here in LA, Amelia Earhart was going to be giving a lecture about her successful flight around the world, and filming had just finished on _The Wizard of Oz_, starring Shirley Temple as Dorothy.

Xander chewed his eggs and drank coffee and wondered how much trouble Spike could have gotten himself into in this relatively benign-appearing world. He was a pretty resourceful vampire. Maybe Angel’s wizard had been wrong. Maybe Alexander wasn’t much better at magic than Xander was.

When Willow returned she was wearing a much snazzier outfit and an ear-to-ear smile. She sat down at the table across from him.

“Well?” he said. “I take it things went according to plan?”

“Eleven thousand dollars, Xander. Eleven thousand, just for one necklace and those ugly earrings.”

He blinked. “Wow. That’s…that’s a lot of money now, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” She looked smug. “The first guy offered me only half that, but I saw the look in his eyes and it was definitely greedy, so I tried another place. It was in Beverly Hills. I went shopping when I was done.”

“Well, you look very chic. I, however, look grubby and disreputable.”

She patted his hand. “That’s okay, Xan. Everyone knows that bad boys are really sexy.”

They had a little more time to spare, so they took a short stroll through LA-perfect weather. It was very strange to see the city without skyscrapers. Xander had a sudden, easily suppressed urge to see what Sunnydale was like in this place. Was it all Hellmouthy? Hadn’t the Master been trapped underground right about now?

Finally it was time to climb on board the Super Chief. It was a big, gleaming thing with a proud red and yellow engine. Xander thought it looked kind of phallic, but then so did most trains. They’d booked a drawing room, and Willow got a little excited over it when the porter showed them in. It had a table and couch and chairs and its own tiny bathroom, and the porter explained how at night it would have two beds.

Once the train got rolling, Xander and Willow explored a little. There were observation cars, a club car with a bar and magazines, a dining car, and even a barber shop. Xander enjoyed it for a while, but soon enough the novelty wore off and he found himself yearning for in-flight movies. He and Willow ended up back in their compartment, where she produced a novel she’d acquired somewhere and began to read, and he stared out the window as the southwest zoomed by.

 

***

 

They changed trains again in Chicago, almost two days later. By the time they walked out into a cold drizzle in Peoria, Xander was good and sick of trains. He could see a gray river churning nearby—the Illinois River, Willow had informed him—and some unremarkable buildings. Amazingly, Peoria had never been especially high on his must-visit list. He turned to Willow. “So? Do we consult the Peoria Department of Lost Vampires? ‘Cause I don’t see any bleached blonds in leather skulking around.”

She frowned at him. “I think what we need to do is find a place to stay. Someplace we can settle in for a while, maybe.”

He turned to stare at her. “Settle in?” His voice may have gone a little high. “I don’t want to become one of the locals, Will. Remember the plan: find Spike, swoop him up, zap home. Moving vans not included.”

“It might take a while to find him.”

“Just…do your magic map thingy. That took, what? Two minutes?”

“That spell helps you figure out someone’s approximate location. The city. It doesn’t give you a street address.” She held her hand up. “And before you ask, no, I can’t do a more specific spell. Those take more stuff from the person you’re looking for, and Angel didn’t have more stuff. Just that little bit of hair.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t want you to freak out.”

“Well, I’m officially freaking here, Will.” A couple passing by on the sidewalk gave the two of them a long look, and Xander lowered his voice. “Fine. If it’s not going to be abracadabra, let’s pull a vampire out of a hat, how will we find him?”

“Research. We’ll have to put on our gumshoe hats. How hard can it be? Spike’s not exactly low profile, is he?”

Xander scowled. “I don’t have a gumshoe hat,” he muttered, and they made their way down the sidewalk.

  
[Chapter Nine](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/169459.html)

 

  
  



	9. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 9/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (9 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cg713/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Nine  
**

 

A madhouse has a rhythm, a pattern of events and movements that’s like a slow, sad waltz. The waltz never ends, although sometimes a dancer leaves or a new one joins in.

For a long time, Spike watched the dance.

He wasn’t certain for how long, even as a rough generalization. There was no way of marking time—all he could see of the outside world was bits of sky, and the inside was uniformly the same, including the slightly chilly temperature. The length of time didn’t really matter anyhow; many of the patients, like Spike, had a past tense, but now they were all stuck in the present. There was no future.

Every morning the patients were led out of the ward, first the unshackled ones and then the ones who slept in chains. Those in chains were instructed to use the toilets before they walked up the stairs and into the dayroom. Once there, Spike's group would be locked to the wall, and the day’s routine of bells and meals and buckets would proceed, until everyone was brought back into the basement for bed.

The big excitement was shower day. The orderlies would drag long hoses out of the closet hidden behind one of the four doors of the dayroom, and they’d attach them to spigots on one wall. The ambulatory patients would be lined up—most of them unwillingly—and sprayed off, one by one. The confined prisoners would simply be hosed where they were. Once everyone was dripping and shivering, the orderlies would put away the hoses and emerge with safety razors, shaving everyone’s faces and skulls. They’d leave behind tiny, itchy nicks, which some of the patients would pick at obsessively. Robby and his companion would come along with brooms then, and sweep the multicolored bits of hair into a pile before dumping it all into a bin.

Spike tried very hard to be good. He wanted out of the bloody chains, because even the chance to walk the length of the room unfettered was beginning to seem like a lovely dream, and a small part of him still held out hope of escape. But Dunham and Reynolds and the other orderlies persisted in taunting him—slapping his arse as they moved him about, casually tweaking his nipples or squeezing his cock or balls, sometimes even sticking a fat thumb against or slightly into his sphincter as they locked him up. They’d call him names as well. Dracula, occasionally, but more often the Count, or Dunham’s favorite, Count Willy. He struggled to ignore them, he really did, but sometimes it was more than he could bear, and he’d snarl or snap or make an abortive attempt to strike them, and they’d laugh heartily and promise him more time in chains.

But it was Reynolds who invented the new game. Spike already knew the man was bent. On several occasions, he’d seen Reynolds furtively drag one of the younger inmates into the adjacent storage room or the orderlies’ lounge. When the two emerged some time later, the patient would be limping or walking bowlegged, and would have a suspiciously clean bit of skin on his arse and inner thighs. The other orderlies certainly noticed, but apparently they didn’t much care.

One eternal afternoon, though, Reynolds and Dunham approached Spike, where he sat in his usual place against the wall. They looked down at him and Reynolds gave him an evil smile. Then the men repositioned themselves so that Dunham was standing between Reynolds and the room at large, mostly blocking the view of whatever Reynolds was going to do to Spike. “On your knees,” Reynolds said. Spike hesitantly complied. Reynolds cinched the chains on Spike’s wrists so that Spike’s arms were held upright, fast against the wall. He shortened Spike’s ankle chains as well so he couldn’t move off his knees. Spike felt panic begin to rise in his chest.

 “Oi, what are you—”

Reynolds slapped his face hard enough to draw blood. “Another word and I’ll muzzle you. Got it?”

He waited until Spike nodded miserably. Then he reached forward and began to stroke Spike’s cock.

Spike opened his mouth, saw the warning look in the man’s eyes, and closed it again. Reynolds began to stroke more insistently.

Spike hadn’t been able to get his end away since he’d arrived. It was true, he no longer had the hungry libido of a vampire, but he was still in a young man’s body. He often had fitful dreams of shagging Angel, Dru, Harmony, Buffy, and nameless others, and he’d wake up with his cock stiff and aching. Because of the way he was bound into his bed each night, he couldn‘t even have a fast wank. So, aside from when the orderlies had teased him, Spike’s cock had gone untouched for ages. Consequently, it began to fill very rapidly after Reynolds began to handle it.

Reynolds looked at the organ he held and cackled. “Knew you were a slut, Willy. Bet you miss having Old Doc give it to ya, huh? Well, we’ll fix that if you ever get outta them chains.”

Spike closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was somewhere else. When that didn’t work, he concentrated on not letting his hips move, not arching into the closest approximation of a gentle touch he’d had in this place.

Reynolds tugged and rubbed. He seemed to be an expert at this, and within a very short time Spike was steadily leaking precome, and he was panting and choking back small whines. The blokes on either side of him were watching, both of them wide-eyed, both of them sporting erections of their own.

Reynolds did a bit of a twisting thing that truly showed some finesse and pushed his thumbnail into Spike’s slit. Spike’s bollocks drew up. He felt himself on the edge of the precipice, about to fall over, and he bucked forward, chasing after his climax.

At which point Reynolds let go and stood, chortling loudly. “Slut,” he said. He released the cinched chains a bit and Spike collapsed down, onto his arse. But he still couldn’t reach his own desperate cock. Reynolds and Dunham moved away. They left Spike there on the floor, hard and enraged and trying not to cry.

The next day they repeated the game, and the day after that, and then nearly every day that Reynolds and Dunham were on duty. Soon Spike became erect as soon as they approached him, which made the orderlies laugh in delight and made him seethe and curse his traitorous body. Reynolds never allowed him to climax.

 

***

 

Even sadists needed a day off now and then, Spike expected. And, in fact, the orderlies seemed to work only six days a week. There were other men who filled in on the off days. These men were different. Many of them had the sun- and wind-burned faces of farmers, and others had the thin, hungry look of men who had never kept a job for long, perhaps because they drank, perhaps because they were simple or half-mad themselves. The new blokes were closely overseen by the regulars, and assigned to the most menial and dirty tasks. Most of these substitute orderlies lasted only a few weeks before they moved on. Back to their plows, maybe, or to contemplate the bottoms of bottles. Spike paid special attention to them, because they were clumsy at the asylum’s dance, and he thought perhaps they were his best hope.

One day, identical to all the rest, Dunham provided cover while Reynolds stroked Spike nearly to completion. Reynolds didn’t need to shorten Spike’s chains for this anymore; when Spike saw Reynolds reaching for him, he would sit on the floor and splay his legs, displaying his trained cock like the slut Reynolds called him. As always, the orderly stopped just before Spike came, and as always, he quietly warned Spike that if he tried to finish himself off, he would end up back in the tiny, dark cell, this time in a straightjacket. Spike bit his tongue and rested his hands at his side and waited for his balls to stop throbbing.

And then he caught sight of one of the new orderlies.

The bloke was mopping something up and his back was to Spike. Like all the orderlies, he was dressed in whites. He was tall and muscular, and his forearms were deeply tanned. He wore his dark hair carefully slicked down. Something about his shape, about the way he held himself, was deeply, instantly familiar.

Then he turned toward Spike, and Spike gasped. “Angel,” he said in a voice hoarse from lack of use.

Angel didn’t look at him. Didn’t even glance his way. But of course the room was as noisy as ever, so Spike rose to his feet and shouted, “Angel!”

Most of the patients were used to his silence, and many of the more lucid of them stared at Spike. Some of the other orderlies laughed, and out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw Dunham and Reynolds heading his way. But still, Angel didn’t look.

So Spike tried again. “Liam! Bloody look at me!” And Angel did. His brow—his tanned brow—furrowed, and he walked across the room to Spike. He got there just before Reynolds and Dunham.

“How do you know my name?” he asked.

As Spike was hit by fresh waves of despair, Dunham patted Angel on the shoulder. “Don’t pay him any attention. He thinks he’s a vampire. Nobody but a loony would think you were an angel, O’Shea.”

“But he knew my first name,” Angel said.

“God, Angel, Liam, please. Don’t you know me? It’s Spike. William. Please, please get me out of this bloody place.”

Spike reached out imploringly, but the chains weren’t long enough to reach, and Dunham gave him a heavy blow to the head, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Told you. He’s nuts, of course. He prob’ly heard one of the guys calling your name.” He grabbed Spike’s arm and tried to drag him back against the wall.

Angel shook his head. “No. Nobody but my ma calls me Liam. I go by my middle name. Jamie.”

Spike attempted to struggle out of Dunham’s heavy grip. “I know you, Liam. You…you had a sister, Kathy, yeah?” Spike struggled to remember anything else about Angel’s human life that might translate to this time. “You’re from Galway, and—” Dunham hit him again, this time in the mouth. Spike tasted blood.

“I was born in Illinois. But my Gram’s from Galway. And Kathy was my sister. How do you know these things?”

Reynolds stepped between Spike and Angel. “He’s loony but he ain’t stupid. Half you micks got a sister named Kathy or Kathleen, and Galway’s a lucky guess. Lotsa folks got people from there.”

Spike watched Angel frown. As familiar as those brown eyes were, as many times as Spike had gazed into them in his other life, now he saw not even a spark of recognition, just puzzlement and a little fear. Spike still didn’t understand what was going on, but he realized that this man was no more _his_ Angel than Dr. Giles was the former librarian and Watcher.

All the strength left Spike’s body at once and he crumpled to the floor.

Angel looked at him a moment more, then shook his head and went back to mopping. Reynolds fetched a muzzle and buckled it over Spike’s head. Spike would wear the bloody thing for the next month or so, having it removed only when he was fed and watered.

Jamie O’Shea left at the end of his shift that day and never came back.

 

***

 

The dance went on, and Spike watched. He didn’t speak, he didn’t fight, he made no eye contact.

One day, when he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to have a bit of freedom, he was unchained. He was now free to wander about the dayroom, to use the toilets when he needed to, to sleep at night unfettered, with a pillow under his head and a thin blanket over him.

Comparatively speaking, it was heaven.

Like many of the other patients, he spent much of his day walking slow circles about the great room, pacing off the minutes step by step. After a time—weeks or perhaps months—a small group accumulated at his side, all walking at the same pace. There was the black bloke with the strange eyes, the one who’d spoken to Spike his first day in the ward. The others called him Sam. He never talked to Spike again; he only walked. There was a man in his fifties who somehow managed a somber dignity despite his nudity and the circumstances. He was called Talbot and he did talk, now and then, in bits and pieces. He’d been a banker, he told Spike, until the 1929 Crash. Then he’d lost everything—his money, his home, his family, and finally his sanity—and he’d attempted to blow up the state capitol with himself inside. The scheme had failed badly, and someone had pulled strings to get Talbot sent to the asylum instead of prison. Talbot thought it had been meant as a mercy, but he wasn’t sure. And there was a young man, short and slight, with red hair. He looked familiar to Spike, but Spike couldn’t place him. He rarely spoke and generally seemed quite sane, but a few days out of every month he ran on all fours and howled at the moon, and he had to be restrained so he didn’t bite the other inmates. His name was Daniel.

When they weren’t walking, their little group stood or sat close together, mostly just enjoying a bit of companionship. But one day as Spike was dully watching the usual activity, his mind nearly turned off, Daniel nudged him. “You know,” the boy said. “That guy doesn’t look too bright.” He pointed at an orderly, one of the substitutes.

Spike had paid the bloke little mind. He’d stopped noticing them after the not-Angel, afraid to be again duped by whatever malevolent beings ran this place. But now he looked, and he saw that Daniel was right. The orderly in question was pudgy and on the short side. He was standing near the door through which their meal trays arrived and he was holding a short truncheon in one hand, as if he might be attacked any moment. A few of the orderlies carried the small clubs, but they generally kept them tucked into their belts. This bloke, though, had the thing in a death-grip in his right hand. He was staring open-mouthed at a prisoner the orderlies called the Dervish, who would spin and spin in place for hours, stopping only now and then to try and fingerpaint the floor with his own feces. Right now, the Dervish was whirling.

“I expect it doesn’t take geniuses to mind a roomful of loonies,” Spike said.

“Guess not,” said Daniel, and the discussion ended. But Spike kept an eye on the orderly all the same.

The orderly returned the next several weeks, each time seemingly no smarter or better trained. He gaped at the patients and fumbled through his duties. “Not gonna last much longer,” Daniel said as the man overturned a filthy mop-bucket. He was probably right. The regular orderlies did not look pleased.

Quietly, Spike said, “A patient might take advantage of that berk.”

The three others stared at him in shock for a moment. Then Talbot said, “You might get by him, but you’d never get out. There must be a half-dozen locked doors between here and the world, and God knows how many guards and orderlies.”

Spike nodded. “Might at least get a few good licks in. Just once.”

Sam put his hand, feverishly hot, on Spike’s arm. “You should wait for the boy,” Sam said. They were the only words he’d spoken to Spike since that first day.

“Can’t wait any longer, mate. They’ve nearly emptied me, you see.”

Sam looked mournfully at him, patted his arm once, then stood and wandered off.

After a few moments, Talbot said, “It’s incredibly foolish.”

For the first time in what felt like a thousand years, Spike smiled. “’M meant to be insane, yeah?”

When the bell rang for lunch that day, Spike made sure to be near the front of the line. The new orderly stood near the closed door, waiting for Robby and the other inmate to come through with the food trolleys. As always, he held the truncheon in one hand.

Spike heard the lock click open and he tensed, getting ready to spring into action. And then, just as the door swung open, a wild howling and a tremendous crash came from the rear of the line. Almost everyone except Spike turned to look, and the orderly craned his neck and took a half step towards the commotion.

That was exactly what Spike needed. He leapt, closing the few feet between himself and the orderly. He snatched the club out of the man’s hand and used it to deliver a solid whack to his head. The man crashed to the floor and Spike jumped over him, shouldering past Robby and the cart full of bowls, launching himself through the door. He spun about then and slammed the door shut, leaving Robby’s companion and the guard out in the corridor with him, their mouths hanging open.

Spike put his back against the door. When the guard made a grab for him, Spike swung the truncheon again, and this man crumpled as well. Spike fell to his knees, tore the key ring free of the guard’s belt, and used the most well-worn key to lock the door.

Then he ran.

He was human and weak but it still felt so bloody good to run, to fly down those worn stairs, not continuing all the way to the bottom, but instead stopping on the ground floor, unlocking the door, and taking off down the corridor. Behind him he heard muffled shouts and then, a moment later, a shrieking alarm. He ran faster.

He didn’t know the way out, and the hallways twisted and turned like serpents. His lungs were hurting already from the unaccustomed exercise. He heard more shouts and stomping boots.

He ran.

He came to a door that was locked and none of the keys would fit. After he fumbled for precious seconds, he turned and ran the other way. His pursuers drew closer.

His feet pounded against the linoleum and it was like one of those horrible dreams, only this was real—or as real as this life was, anyway. He gasped for air and his muscles were sore, and still he ran.

The keys opened the next door he came to. He burst through and discovered himself in the entrance lobby, where the nurse who looked like Dru scrambled to her feet and screamed and Spike ran right past her, to the big double doors, and then he was _out_ and he was running and there was grass under his feet, wonderful, lovely, soft grass and he ran and there was another great shout and something hit his back and he fell on his face.

 He tried to get up, but the weight of the world was on him and his mouth was filled with dirt and he couldn’t even scream. Another blow hit the back of his head.

And that was all.

 

***

 

He was in the examination room again, strapped onto the metal table. There had been some bits before this, bits with boots and fists and clubs and hoses and electric shocks and…and he didn’t want to remember those bits. But now here he was, with his legs up in the bloody stirrups and a gag in his mouth, and Giles was looking down at him, shaking his head sadly. “Ah, William. I had so hoped you had learnt the rules by now.”

He had hoped no such thing. Spike saw the mad glee dancing in the man’s eyes, behind his polished spectacles.

“This behavior is quite unacceptable. Accosting guards! Attempting to flee the facility! As if such a thing were remotely possible.”

_  
But I did it, you old bugger  
_  
, Spike said in his head. _I made it outside._

Giles tsked and patted Spike’s inner thigh. “Such a shame.” Then he brightened. “But, let us make lemonade out lemons, as they say. Your transgressions have given me the opportunity to try something new.”

He reached to the tray beside him and picked up a scalpel. It shined brightly in the room’s lights. Spike’s bowels suddenly felt as if they’d been filled with ice-water (a feeling he actually knew quite intimately now, thanks to the various punishments the orderlies had visited upon him).

“Now,” said Giles. “As you know, state law mandates sterilization of patients such as yourself. And, as you also know, I’ve been performing simple vasectomies. But lately I’ve been considering complete castration.” He ignored Spike’s muffled roar. “There’s greater risk of infection, of course, and the recovery period will be longer. But I believe that complete removal of the sex glands will have the additional benefit of making patients more…manageable. More compliant. It may alleviate some of their symptoms as well. I shall write a paper on it.”

Spike wanted to stop listening. He wanted, actually, to black out altogether, to sink into the warm embrace of unconsciousness and never wake up. But what he wanted didn’t matter.

Giles sighed. “I haven’t had time to put the proper protocols in place. I might even decide to do a complete de-sexing. I’m not certain yet. But I think, William, that I shall consider you an exploratory attempt. A sort of dry run, you see, before I put the full program into effect.”

Giles looked across the room at Dunham and Reynolds, who were waiting eagerly. “Gentleman? Prepare him, please.”

With a broad smile and a furtive squeeze of Spike’s bollocks, Dunham shaved the entire pubic region. He used a wide piece of surgical plaster to tape Spike’s penis to his belly, presumably to keep it out of the way. Spike roared again when Giles injected a needle into his scrotum. Then Dunham painted Spike’s balls with mercurochrome. Spike rolled his eyes to watch Giles scrub his hands at the sink, and then Giles returned to Spike’s side.

“There are a number of methods to perform a castration. The application of certain substances can temporarily reduce male sexual activity, but of course we’re in need of something permanent here. A better option is to use a burdizzo, which will crush the blood supply to the testicles. The risk of infection is low as there is no incision, but there is quite a bit of swelling, and the process is slow. It takes some time before the body reabsorbs the testicle. Not very elegant, I think. Banding is also possible, but it is a lengthy process as well, and quite risky. I believe we shall use the most direct method, which is actual removal of the testes.”

Spike was crying. He didn’t want to, didn’t want to give this bastard the satisfaction, but tears were gathering and blurring his vision and running down the sides of his face. He wished that instead of finding the front doors he’d found Giles instead, and had managed to beat the man to a bloody pulp before the orderlies caught up with him.

Giles moved around so he was between Spike’s legs. He reached down and cradled Spike’s ballsac in his hand gently, almost reverently. “Consider yourself a pioneer of sorts, William.” And then he cut.

The anesthetic had not yet taken much effect. Spike considered that a lucky thing because, soon enough, the pain caused him to black out.

[Chapter Ten](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/169578.html)

 

  
  



	10. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 10/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (10 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ck7xy/)  
  
---  
  
 

**Ten**

 

The radio sucked. Sure, there were baseball games to listen to, which was fine if you were a White Sox fan, which he wasn’t. And there were the serials. Some of them were kind of cool, like the detective shows. Others were hokey, but still kind of fun. _Speed Gibson of the International Secret Police_ was a personal favorite. But others were just stupid or, like _Charlie Chan _and _Amos ‘n’ Andy_, made him wince at the racism. He didn’t understand the comedies, and the music was as awful as he’d expect in a world where Elvis was only four years old. And in any case, even the most entertaining radio was still nowhere in the same league as his beloved satellite TV with HBO and Showtime and TiVo.

Once a week, Xander and Willow went to the movie theater. No THX-Dolby, but there was _Robin Hood_ and _Dodge City_ with Errol Flynn, and _Son of Frankenstein_ with Rathbone, Karloff, _and _Lugosi. There was _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_, _Gunga Din_ and, of course, _Gone with the Wind_. There were even a few neither of them had ever heard of and which, Xander was pretty sure, didn’t exist in their world. _The Adventures of Captain Billings_. _Four Nights in Constantinople_. _The Great Machine_. Tickets cost twenty-five cents and the popcorn had real butter.

So the movies provided some solace but not much, because all in all, Xander was miserable. They’d rented a hotel room in downtown Peoria as soon as they’d arrived, but after they’d sort of skulked aimlessly around town for a few days, it became clear that they weren’t going to find Spike right away. So they’d bought a used car that cost only four hundred bucks: a 1934 Nash Ambassador that Xander was a little in love with and so, perhaps, a little less miserable. Then they’d answered an ad for a house for rent, $25 a month.

It was a little farmhouse a few miles outside of town, but it was owned by a pair of widows—Mrs. Hull and Mrs. Carlson—who lived in town in a Queen Anne mansion that was fish-scaled, spindled, and gabled nearly to death. When the front door opened, Xander and Willow both gasped and staggered a little. Although these women were in their late seventies, Mrs. Hull was unmistakably Tara and Mrs. Carlson was undoubtedly Anya. Xander and Willow had remembered what Angel had told them about meeting people they seemed to know, but still it was a shock.

“Oh, my g-goodness!” Mrs. Hull said when she saw their faces. “Is something the matter?”

“Maybe they’re not accustomed to being around the elderly,” said Mrs. Carlson. “Or maybe that rabbit that’s been hiding in the front garden scared them as they made their way up the walk.”

Xander recovered first. “No, no. I’m sorry. It’s just…we’ve been traveling a lot lately, and we’re kind of tired, and, um, you—uh, your house reminded us of someone. That’s all.”

Willow nodded dumbly and she and Xander followed the ladies into the parlor.

Mrs. Carlson hobbled very close to Xander and peered up at his missing eye. “How did you lose that, young man? Couldn’t be in the war; you’re too young for that.”

“Anna!” exclaimed Mrs. Hull. “I-I apologize. Mrs. Carlson tends to be a little…d-direct.”

Xander grinned. “It’s okay. It was a construction accident. Got hit in the face by a jagged piece of wood.”

“And your fingers?” asked Mrs. Carlson.

“Got a bit too careless with a saw.”

She put her hands on her bony hips. “Construction isn’t the right occupation for you, young man.”

“I think you’re right, Mrs. Carlson.”

Finally, Willow found her voice again. “And that’s what I told him, too. It took him a while to listen. He’s kinda stubborn.” She gave Xander a loving-but-exasperated-spouse look. “We left LA and came here so I could work on my book while Xander supports us with odd jobs.”

“Your b-book?” said Mrs. Hull.

“Yes. I’m doing a sociological study of small Midwestern towns.” And then she said a lot of words that Xander didn’t understand and that probably hadn’t been invented yet—deconstructionism, Postmodernism, hegemony—and the old ladies’ eyes glazed over a little as they nodded politely. It was the story Xander and Willow had concocted aboard the _Super Chief_.

When Willow stopped talking, Mrs. Carlson said, “That’s very unusual for a man to support his wife like that while she does academic work. Very unusual. Shouldn’t she be taking care of the home and raising your children instead?”

Xander had decided that honesty was the best policy. “Mrs. Carlson, my Willow’s a lot smarter than I am. If this is what makes her happy, I figure my job is to support her as best as I can. And we don’t have kids yet anyway.”

“That’s a very unusual attitude, Mr. Harris.”

“I-I think it’s s-sweet,” said Mrs. Hull.

Mrs. Carlson nodded. “If Mr. Carlson had thought like that, I wouldn’t have been so pleased when the old goat finally kicked the bucket.”

“Anna!” Mrs. Hull swatted at her friend and Xander had to choke back laughter. Oh, he did miss Anya.

Still shaking her head, but also smiling fondly, Mrs. Hull said, “So you’re interested in m-my house for rent?”

“Yes,” said Xander. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be here. A few months maybe.”

“The house belonged to Mr. Hull. He d-died some years ago, and I moved here, to Mrs. Carlson’s house. The house for rent is very small, but comfortable. It’s fully furnished. M-my nephew had been living there for years, but he’s recently moved to California, actually.”

“It sounds nice, Ta—Mrs. Hull,” said Willow.

“I own the land around it also, but Barton Gates leases it from me. S-so you won’t have to worry about harvesting the c-corn or soy.” She smiled at them.

“Perfect,” Xander said. “’Cause I’d probably lose an arm or something if I tried.”

Xander paid the women two months’ rent in advance, and Mrs. Hull handed them the keys. As Xander drove them out to their new home, he glanced over at Willow. “So…that was kind of spooky, huh?”

“Yeah. But nice. I mean, they both lived to be old ladies, and they looked happy, didn’t they? I thought they looked pretty happy.”

“Do you, uh, think they’re happy _together_?”

Willow hit his leg. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Xander Harris. Now that you’re a confirmed friend of Dorothy yourself, you need to stop thinking about women getting it on with each other.”

“Hey! First off, I don’t care how gay I am. I’m never gonna not think that girl-on-girl action is sexy. Second, they’re _old_. Ew. And third, my mind wasn’t in the gutter. I just meant…well, it would be nice to think of them happy, that’s all.”

Willow patted the same spot on his leg where she’d hit him. “They could be just two friends who like each other’s company. But, yeah. Gaydar kinda went off for me back there.”

Xander smiled. “It’s nice to know gaydar works in alternate realities, too.”

They moved into the little house and it was, indeed, comfortable. There were two small bedrooms, a dining room and living room, a miniscule bathroom, and a kitchen that made Xander shudder with horror. How had people survived before microwaves and pizza delivery? There was a storm cellar lined with shelves. There was also a front porch, complete with porch swing, which overlooked what seemed to be miles of newly planted fields. The village of Bartonville, which was a short drive away, had a general store, a couple of diners, and a sinister hulk of a building that turned out to be a mental hospital.

They settled in.

Willow spent the daytime looking up various town records and asking questions of anyone who seemed likely to have encountered Spike. Xander sometimes accompanied her, but often just stayed at home during the day, fixing up small things around the house. At night he went to the local bars and other dives where Willow was not especially welcome, or they prowled together through graveyards. They found no sign of Spike. They didn’t even know whether he, like Angel, had become human. They encountered only a very few demons as they searched, and they were all relatively friendly types who hadn’t seen a snarky British guy—vampire or otherwise—around town.

Sometimes Xander was certain that Spike was long gone, if he’d ever been here to begin with. But then Willow would do her magic map thing, and there was Spike’s red glow, stuck firmly in this location. Xander didn’t want to doubt Willow’s spell, not only because it would hurt her feelings, but also because what else did they have to go on?

 

***

 

“I hate researching without the Internet!”

Xander’s pleasant daydream about Angel was interrupted by Willow’s outburst. He knew it was stupid, because they’d only had, what? A week? And besides, it was _Angel_ for Christ’s sake. But Xander couldn’t help it. He missed him.

The court clerk glared at Willow and Xander patted Willow’s hand. “Might wanna turn down the volume there.”

In a much lower voice, Willow said. “Sorry. But this is so frustrating! It’s taking me days to do something I could’ve managed in minutes with my laptop.”

“I know. Sorry. But where’s that gumshoe spirit you were going on about?”

“Yeah, right. You’re just sitting there thinking sex with ex-vampire thoughts. I’m the one with papercuts and ink-stained fingers.”

He wondered how she knew. General witchiness, maybe. Or maybe it really was obvious. “I’m here today to provide moral support. And here I am, all morally supportive. You want me to plough through court records, too, I’m your guy. But let me tell you something. I’d much rather be _doing_ sex with ex-vampires than thinking about it, and if you don’t think I want out of here as bad as you do—”

“Shh!”

His defensive rant was derailed when she held up a hand and stared carefully at a piece of paper that looked, to Xander, exactly like all the rest. He waited, watching the horror grow on her face as her eyes scanned the document. When she finally looked at him, her face was white as chalk.

“What is it, Will?”

“I found him, I think.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not exactly. According to this, six years ago William Pratt was committed to the Peoria State Hospital.”

Xander pictured that building, which he passed every time they drove into town, and he shuddered. “Shit. Is he still there?”

“As far as I can tell. It’s for incurable mental patients, Xan. You pretty much don’t get out of there unless you die.”

“Shit,” he repeated. “But…but…why? I mean, Spike’s no poster child for emotional stability, maybe, but he’s not crazy.”

“Hang on.” She read for a few more minutes. “According to this, he showed up in the middle of Canton, Illinois, naked and confused. They couldn’t find any next of kin. Some witnesses—a doctor, nurses, a cop—all swore that he was delusional. He claimed to be a vampire from the future, Xan.”

“Oh, shit.” Xander’s responses seemed sadly limited at the moment.

And then, impossibly, her face went two shades paler. “Xan? This says the name of the asylum’s director is Dr. Rupert Giles.”

He blinked. “Well, that’s a good thing, right? I mean, it’s _Giles_. They’re probably having tea and crumpets together right this minute.”

“I don’t know. Remember, this Giles might not be much like ours. And even ours wasn’t a charter member of the Spike Fan Club.”

“Neither was I, and I’m rescuing the guy.”

“I know. But Xan, he’s been locked up in a mental hospital for six years. They weren’t very nice places, you know.”

“Like, Nurse Ratched bad?”

“Worse.”

Xander sighed and dropped his voice more, so the clerk couldn’t hear. “So zap him outta there and we’re gone.”

“Not that easy. I can’t transport people unless I’m physically close to them.”

“Great. Well, I guess we need to find a way to get us in there, then. Maybe they do tours. Or we can say we’re his long-lost cousins and pop in during visiting hours.”

 

***

 

Of course, it wasn’t that easy.

The Illinois Asylum for the Incurably Insane did not do tours. They didn’t allow visitors either, long-lost cousins or not. It was not a very welcoming place.

After nearly two weeks of asking around as subtly as possible, Willow and Xander learned that the only people allowed inside were patients and employees. Even worse, the place didn’t hire women at all, except for a couple of nurses who’d been there forever. “Discrimination,” Willow grumbled, and she may have been right, but being right didn’t get her in the doors.

It was frustrating as hell, passing by that building every day, being fairly certain that Spike was right _there_, and not being able to do jack shit about it.

Willow looked grimly at Xander one day. “Xan. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed….”

“An odd saying for a Jewish girl to recite in reference to a current or former demon, Will.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get a job, Xander. Find him. Figure out a way to spring him.”

“Easy peasy, right?”

“Alex did tell Angel you had to be the one to rescue Spike.”

“Yeah, about that. I’ve been wondering if I—if _he_ set me up. I mean, maybe he knew somebody had to do it, and he figured, hey! Alternate self! He looks expendable. Or maybe he knew I’d end up boning Angel and wanted to get rid of me. Except if he hadn’t named me to begin with, I wouldn’t have ended up boning Angel, and…. Crap. All this stuff with prophecies and other dimensions gives me a headache.”

That was Friday. On Monday morning, Xander put on the suit and hat Willow had bought him—he thought he looked kind of dapper in the fedora, actually—and drove the Nash over to the asylum. The building looked twice as imposing up close. He took a few deep breaths and marched in through the big double doors.

He found himself in a large, mostly empty room, where his footsteps echoed loudly. It was cool inside, without a trace of the humidity that was already settling outside like a heavy coat. There was nobody in the room except a nurse who sat behind a desk, looking over a pile of papers.

When she looked up at him, Xander had to choke back a scream.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

At least she didn’t call him kitten. “Um, yeah,” he stammered. “I, uh, I was interested in applying for a job.”

She looked him up and down and then raised an eyebrow. “Just a moment, please,” she said. She unlocked the door behind her and passed through it. It sounded very solid when it closed.

Xander spent several minutes waiting, looking around at the blank walls, reflecting on how ironic it was for Drusilla—or her doppelganger, at least—to be working in a loony bin. Then the door opened again and Xander found himself at a loss for words as Giles stepped out.

“You’re inquiring about a position?” Giles asked. He was wearing tweed, of course. A three-piece suit, in fact. He had his hair slicked down in a style that was common to a lot of men here, but wasn’t very flattering.

Xander realized he was staring. He stuck his right hand out. “Uh, yes. My name’s Xander Harris.”

Giles seemed to consider for a moment, then he shook Xander’s hand. “I’m Dr. Giles, the director of this institution. What is your prior work experience?”

Demon hunting, Xander did not say. “Construction, mostly. But I can do a lot of things. I’m willing to work hard, and I’m a fast learner.”

“But you have never worked in an institution like this before?”

“No. Sir.”

Giles looked him up and down. “You do appear quite strong. But your infirmity….” He pointed at Xander’s eyepatch. “It doesn’t get in the way?”

“No, sir. I know how to keep my one eye open.”

“Have you any references?”

“I’m afraid not. My wife and I just recently moved here from California.”

Giles stared at Xander a while longer. There was something cold and kind of scary in the administrator's eyes, with none of the warmth that librarian Giles had even when he was angry or annoyed. Eventually, this Giles nodded. “Very well. I can take you on part-time. One day a week, plus occasional holidays and so forth. Wages are four dollars per day. If your work is satisfactory, you may be eligible for full-time when there is an opening.”

“Thank you, sir. That sounds great.”

“You do understand this is an asylum, do you not? The patients engage in many…unusual…behaviors.”

Xander forced a smile. “I understand. I’m from California, sir. We see a lot of unusual things there.”

“And at times we must take what might seem like extreme steps to control certain behaviors, to protect them and others.”

Oh, Xander didn’t like the look in Giles’s eyes at all when he said that. “Yes, sir,” he said.

After another pause, Giles nodded again. “Very well. I shall expect you on Thursday at 6 a.m. sharp. Nurse Perkins will give you a uniform, which you must wear. You shall be expected to launder it yourself, and if it is lost or damaged the expense will be deducted from your pay.”

They shook hands again, and Giles and Nurse Perkins went back through the door. She returned shortly afterward with a pile of folded white clothing, which she handed to him. “You probably won’t last long,” she said. “Most of them don’t.” It suddenly registered with Xander that she didn’t have an English accent.

“Well, I’ll do my best. I’m pretty stubborn, you know.”

She shrugged. “See you on Thursday, Mr. Harris.”

 

***

 

At ten minutes to six on Thursday, when the sun hadn’t quite risen over the fields, Xander walked back into the asylum. He was dressed all in white, which made him feel absurdly like the Good Humor man. Although in this world they were called, for some reason, Happy Harry men. A small army of other men, similarly dressed, arrived at about the same time. They tended toward big and burly. A few of them gave him looks, but most ignored him.

The men formed a line in the lobby and, at precisely six o’clock, Nurse Perkins unlocked the door. They filed through, most of them quiet, a few talking softly. Inside was another door, barred, with a guard seated there. He nodded at them as they passed through. The hallway twisted and turned a few times, and then they entered a large room lined with lockers. Each of the men went to a locker, where he unloaded the contents of his pockets. Xander stood there uncertainly for a minute, until an especially big man said, “Hey! You there. New guy.”

Xander walked to him. “Hi. Name’s Harris.”

“Dunham. Your new boss. You’ll be on my ward. You do what I say and we’ll get along fine.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Dunham pointed out a locker for Xander to use. Xander didn’t have anything to hide away except his keys—needless to say, he didn’t have any ID that would do him good here—so he put the keys in. Dunham showed him where his time card was, and Xander clocked in. At that point, the group split into smaller sets, presumably for the different wards. Xander and about ten others followed Dunham. They followed the labyrinthine corridors and passed through several doors. There was no way this place would pass fire and building codes, Xander thought, not with this layout. He wondered whether the architect had been on the early-twentieth-century equivalent of crack.

When they came to a stairwell, most of the men trooped down. But Dunham grabbed Xander’s arm before he could follow. “They’re just gonna transfer the patients to the dayroom. Too complicated for you. You come with me; I’ll get you set up.”

The dayroom was an enormous space. Xander must have made a small retching noise when they entered, because Dunham laughed. “You get used to the stench. If you last. You married, Harris?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you wanna stay that way, you’ll learn to shower as soon as you get home. And keep the uniform outside. I got an enclosed porch, and I change there.”

“Thanks for the tips.”

The room was actually pretty clean, but showed signs of relentless hard use: scuffed and worn linoleum, stained and pitted walls, chipped and slightly leaking toilets in the center of the room. Xander tried not to pay much attention to the chains that lined the walls. Dunham led him the length of the room and unlocked one of the two doors, revealing a small space full of mops and brooms and buckets and hoses, as well as a bunch of smaller items stacked on shelves. “This is where your stuff is. You ain’t gonna get a key. You need it unlocked, you let me know. Basically, you’re gonna spend the day cleaning up after the crazies. You gotta watch them close. They’ll shit and piss everywhere if you let ‘em.”

“Lovely.”

“Now, if you see one of ‘em trying to hurt himself or someone else, you let me or one of the regulars know. We’re trained to deal with ‘em, see? We used to let the new guys carry billy clubs, but we had a little problem with that a few years back. The loonies ain’t allowed to jerk off or fuck each other, so watch out for that. Some of the little fuckers would spank the monkey all day long if we let ‘em.”

“No monkey spanking. Got it.”

“You get three breaks a day: two for twenty minutes and one for thirty. I’ll tell you when to take them. You can go in there.” He pointed at the other door. “I’ll unlock the door for you. During your thirty, someone’ll come up from the kitchens with your lunch. Prob’ly one of the retards. There’s a john in there, too. You have any problems or need anything, you let me know.”

“Thanks,” said Xander as Dunham handed him a mop and bucket. Then they stood outside the storeroom and waited as the patients filed in.

Xander had seen a lot of horrible things in his life, up to and including apocalypses. During his post-Sunnydale travels he’d seen riots and wars and famines. He’d seen people living in poverty more appalling than anything he could have imagined. He’d seen countless cruelties inflicted by demons and humans. Nothing he’d seen was quite as horrifying as the terrible parade that entered the room.

They were men. He had to remind himself of that, that these were _people_, because a big part of him so wanted to believe that they were something else altogether, something that didn’t suffer like people did. They had shaved heads and gray skin. Even the black ones were gray. Very few of them wore a shred of clothing; their shriveled little penises dangled pathetically between skinny thighs. And they were skinny, every one of them. Some were almost skeletal. Some had scars and marks on them, including bruises and wounds that looked very recent. Some had deformities that suggested that their problems were congenital. Some of them had wild eyes, but most seemed blank. Dead. These men reminded him of the zombies he’d once encountered in Kiev.

Xander looked for Spike as the line filed in, but it was difficult. There were a lot of patients, and with their bald scalps and bowed heads, they seemed almost identical, like copies of some really awful doll coming down an assembly line. As they entered the room, the men wandered off in various directions, and while many just sat or hunkered down, others began to do things. Cry. Spin. Wave their arms around. Rock back and forth. Gibber like agitated monkeys or shout out word salad. The empty quiet of the room very quickly devolved into the chaos of, well, a madhouse.

The last groups of patients that entered were in chains, and they were immediately and securely locked to the walls. But Xander didn’t have time to watch the process, because he was scurrying around the room, cleaning up messes, grabbing other orderlies to stop this man from bashing his head against the wall or that one from scratching his chest to ribbons. All the time he moved around he kept an eye out for Spike, but it was nearly impossible to distinguish a specific someone in the milling bedlam.

Just as Xander had finished cleaning some urine off the floor—narrowly missing getting his shoes pissed on as well—Dunham came over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Break time, Harris.”

Dunham opened the other door for Xander, and then shut and locked it behind him. Xander was in a small room, not much bigger than the storeroom. There were a couple of padded chairs, a table with an overflowing ashtray, a couple books of matches, and several packages of Wild Country cigarettes. A few ragged copies of magazines lay on the table as well. A metal partition in one corner hid a toilet and sink. And there was a large window—one that, unlike those in the dayroom proper, was low enough to view the grounds. Not that there was much to see: a big lawn studded with a few trees and, beyond that, fields of young corn. There was another door, too; no doubt the one that led to the kitchens. Xander tried the knob and found it unlocked, which was slightly reassuring. He didn’t like the idea of being stuck here.

 Xander collapsed onto one of the chairs. His feet were a little sore and his back hurt from hunching over the broom. He was tired, too—he wasn’t used to getting up so early.

 The wall only partially muffled the din from the dayroom. Xander tried to imagine six years locked up in this place. Spike was pretty tough and resilient, but he also had that sensitive side he thought he hid so well, and anyone would crack under these conditions. Possibly even a formerly murderous demon.

Xander was startled when the door to the dayroom opened again. “Break’s over, Cap’n,” said Dunham, then chuckled at his own rapier-like wit.

The inmates had been fed while he was on break. They were just finishing up their meals—something goopy in the Cream of Wheat family—and that meant Xander had to go into overdrive for a while, cleaning up spills and, in some cases, helping inmates use the toilets. He saw that the poor bastards who were chained to the wall just got buckets.

He was trying to make a concerted effort to find Spike. Maybe he was on a different ward altogether; from what Xander understood, there were five. He had no clue how he’d get a look at the others if Spike wasn’t in this one.

And then he saw a man standing near one wall, just standing there, unmoving, staring at the stone. He was as thin and pale and bald as the others, his shoulders just as hunched. His ass was slightly red and bruised looking, and Xander tried not to imagine why. But there was something familiar about him, something Xander couldn’t quite place. With his heart pounding and as surreptitiously as possible, Xander made his way in that direction. He got derailed a few times by various clean-up needs, but that was okay because the man didn’t move.

Xander got very close, and still the man didn’t turn around. Xander waited until no other orderlies were nearby and pretended to mop something off the floor very close to the man. In his best stage whisper, he said, “Spike?”

The man turned around.

“Oh, fuck,” said Xander quietly, because it was Spike. The nuclear hair was gone, but there were those unmistakable cheekbones, now sharper than ever in the starved face, and the blue eyes, and that little scar on the left eyebrow. But as Xander continued to stare at Spike, he took in more details. The prominent ribs, beneath which the lungs were working in and out rapidly. The concave belly. And beneath that—

“Oh, no,” Xander moaned. Because there was Spike’s cock, flaccid and vulnerable-looking, but behind it there was…nothing. Just a bit of wrinkled skin that had once been a scrotum.

Spike’s dull eyes sharpened for just a moment and his jaw worked, and then he started to turn away. Xander put a hand on his shoulder. “Spike?” he said again.

Spike looked at him, then shook his head. In a mere ghost of a voice, he murmured, “Not him.”

“Don’t you know me? It’s—”

But then Spike flinched and cowered and turned away. Xander turned too, and there was Dunham, watching. “That one giving you trouble? He ain’t acted up in a long time.”

Xander fought mightily to retain his composure. “No, he was, I mean—”

“Kinda shocking, ain’t it?” Dunham grinned and mimed a snipping motion with his fingers. “Doc’s done it to a few of ‘em. It calmed this one right down, I can tell you that.”

“But…but…he’s….”

“He’s a lot less of a nuisance, is what he is.” Dunham slapped Spike on the ass, and Spike didn’t respond. “Now Willy’s a good boy. It’s better for him, you know. He don’t need to spend all that time in chains or a jacket now. C’mon now. It’s time for lunch.”

[Chapter Eleven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/169773.html) 

 

 

 

 


	11. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 11/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (11 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cxpcr/)  
  
---  
  
**Eleven**

 

As soon as he woke up, he knew that he was broken. It wasn’t the pain, although it was bad. He was accustomed to pain. And it wasn’t the fact that he’d been castrated, not really. It had been bloody ages since he’d felt like a man. It was the certain knowledge that this was _it_, this was to be the rest of his existence. Starved and raped and humiliated and taken apart, bit by bit. Treated worse than any animal. Not a demon nor a person, just a thing.

He’d been shackled to a bed frame with his wrists at his sides and his ankles spread wide. There was no mattress, just hard metal beneath him. He was in the dark, perhaps in that first cell, and he was cold, and he hurt. Perhaps, he thought, the wounds would become infected and he would die. He hoped for that.

But Dunham and Reynolds clicked on the light every now and then—making him yelp with pain every time—and shoved a bedpan under his arse and stuck his penis into a metal funnel. Then they changed the dressings and fed and watered him. He’d tried to refuse the food at first, but they’d force-fed him, which only contributed to his misery. After that, he swallowed obediently and waited for them to go away.

When the horrible throbbing in his groin had faded to a dull ache, they unchained him. He couldn’t walk at all, couldn’t even stand. They dragged him out of the cell and into the larger room, where they plopped him down into a wheelchair. He shrieked when his arse hit the seat, but they only wheeled him down the corridor.

He was put in another cell. This one was an improvement, however. It was larger, perhaps ten feet square, the bed had a thin pad on it, and there was a toilet as well. But the walls were padded and they bound him in a straitjacket. He spent an eternity in that cell. But at least he could move a bit, and Reynolds and Dunham prodded him daily, making him spend some time walking about, growing a little stronger. They played with him, as well, rubbing his cock, which now grew erect only after considerable amounts of stimulation. Sometimes they buggered him. They didn’t have to bind him for it; he just lay there limply and turned off his mind.

One day they brought him back to the dayroom. He had the impression he’d been gone a long time, but he wasn’t certain. Time was so plastic now. As soon as he shuffled into the room, the other orderlies immediately clustered about, staring and pointing at his crotch, laughing uproariously. When they grew tired of the novelty, they let him be.

Daniel and Talbot weren’t there. Spike asked a few of the more lucid patients what had happened to them, but they claimed not to know before they scurried away. When he asked an orderly instead, he was muzzled for a week. He never asked again. Robby was gone as well, and now some new boy handed him his bowl. This one never smiled at him or patted his arm in a friendly way. Sam was still there, but he shied away whenever Spike approached him, not even making eye contact.

Spike spent his days standing near a corner, staring at nothing, or sitting somewhere with his knees drawn up under his chin.

Reynolds no longer stroked Spike’s penis, taunting him. It was too difficult to get the useless piece of flesh to respond, Spike expected. But sometimes Reynolds dragged him into the storeroom or the little lounge next door and buggered him. He’d use a bit of cooking oil as slick and after he grunted and came and pulled out, he’d wipe Spike’s arse and thighs with a damp rag, as if that would hide the evidence of what he’d done. There was still a tiny part of Spike’s brain that urged him to resist, to put up a fight even though he’d certainly lose, but Spike ignored that voice and tried to just…go away.

Periodically, Reynolds and Dunham would hobble him and attach his wrists to the belly chain, and they would take him downstairs, to the room where he’d been made a eunuch. The first few times they did that his heart had raced with terror and he had struggled not to enter, but they’d easily forced him inside and shackled him to the table with his legs, as ever, spread wide in the stirrups. Then Giles would enter, and he’d examine Spike, poking at the empty and shrunken patch of skin that had been his scrotum. Then he’d stick a slick finger in Spike’s arse and prod at his prostate, which Giles said was shrinking as well. After that, he’d lubricate Spike’s cock and stroke it firmly, glancing at his watch to measure the time until Spike became erect and then till he climaxed. With each visit, it took longer, which seemed to please the doctor. He took notes on everything, scratching away at a pad of paper. But then when he was finished he’d put the pad down and unzip his trousers and fuck Spike, and he didn’t take notes on that bit.

After a while, Spike stopped resisting when he was led into the room. There wasn’t any point to it, and it didn’t seem that Giles meant to do anything horrible to him, at least not yet. Besides, Spike’s body was no longer his own, and if Giles fancied carving him up like a leg of mutton, that was what Giles would do. Nobody would stop him.

All his drugged dreams were of the asylum now, as if he’d never been anyplace else. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he really was mad.

When one of the temporary orderlies tapped Spike on the shoulder and said his name—he called him Spike; the first time he’d heard that name in ages—Spike recognized the bloke. He was not-Harris, just as not-Giles was his god now, and just as he’d had those glimpses of not-Dru and not-Angel. It was all a prank. Perhaps it was another of Dr. Giles’s experiments, or perhaps whatever was controlling Spike’s destiny was just taking the piss. So Spike had turned away from the man’s horrified stare, and he’d been relieved when Dunham had taken the new orderly away.

Harris’s double re-appeared some days later, and then again after that. Each time, he attempted to talk to Spike, but Spike would walk away, for once finding refuge near Dunham or Reynolds. He would have begged the bloke to leave him be if he’d reckoned that begging would do any good.

 

*** 

 

The sky was black with storm clouds. Spike had spent the day looking up through the windows, trying to remember what the rain felt like on his skin, and the wind. What it felt like to be out of doors, with only the sky for ceiling and the ground beneath him softer than his world of linoleum and stone. Once, a very long time ago, he and Dru had been in Ukraine when they’d run into a spot of trouble with the locals. Apparently they had eaten someone important and the villagers were out for vampire blood. So he and Dru had hidden deep in the forest, spending the days in a shelter they built of layered fir boughs, spending the nights hunting deer and bears. Dru had complained about it all—Miss Edith didn’t fancy living rough, apparently, and Dru’s dress was quite ruined—but Spike had enjoyed himself and the feeling he’d had of being without boundaries. He had wished he had paper and pen, because he wanted to write poems about the glories of nature.

Or perhaps that was all a delusion. He wasn’t certain anymore.

He flinched slightly when Reynolds and Dunham clapped their hands on his shoulders. “Time to see the Doc, Willy,” said Dunham.

They didn’t bother to chain him these days. They didn’t have to. With Reynolds walking in front and Dunham behind, Spike shuffled out of the room and down the hall, down the worn stairway, through the twists and turns that led to the examination room. He kept his head down as he walked, watching his feet as they traversed the old floor. They felt as if they were someone else’s feet, as if he were nothing but a ghost, floating above a body that belonged to someone else.

When they entered the room, Dunham put a hand between Spike’s shoulder blades and shoved, making Spike stumble to his knees. Spike slowly rose back to his feet, and he continued onward, hoisting himself awkwardly onto the table, lifting his legs into the stirrups. The orderlies didn’t bother to strap him down any longer. They would simply wait off to the side until Giles came in and then would watch the examination, disappearing discreetly from the room while Giles fucked him.

While they waited this time, Dunham and Reynolds chatted about a baseball game, and then about Dunham’s wife, who was trying to convince him to buy her an automatic washing machine. Spike stared up at the ceiling, where there was a small crack in the plaster. The metal of the table was cold under his body. Aside from the slow in and out of his lungs, he was perfectly still.

But somewhere inside him, something had cracked. Just a bit, like the plaster in the ceiling. Nothing important. It had happened when Dunham had pushed him. It had been so unnecessary, after all. Spike had been moving along obediently. The shove had been just a petty cruelty, mindless, perhaps. Small compared to the other things that were done to Spike every day. But nonetheless, it had caused that crack to begin.

And as Spike lay there—ignoring the orderlies as they nattered on about the engine block in Reynolds’s Chevy—the crack grew larger, snaking across Spike’s mind. And by the time Giles finally entered the room and positioned himself in his usual spot between Spike’s legs, the crack was as long as the Amazon, as wide as the Nile during flood season. The entire careful structure that Spike had built within his psyche crumbled to bits, and when it did, it released the bit of him he’d been caging up. The bit that raged and screamed, that demanded he stop bending over for these pillocks like a sodding rent-boy, that impelled him to bloody fight. It may have been the ghost of the demon that had inhabited him for so long, or maybe it was his soul, which he’d fought so hard to regain. It may have been the last bit of _him_, of Spike, the bit that refused to become Willy.

Whatever it was, it was free, and it roared.

Giles was just reaching for Spike’s groin. Spike shot upward and, using the stirrups as launching points, fell upon Giles. Giles yelped in surprise and fell backwards with Spike on top of him. Spike straddled him and wrapped his hands around the doctor’s neck. He squeezed.

Had Spike been his vampire self, he could have instantly broken Giles’s neck. But he was only human, of course, and a weakened and depleted human at that. Still, he maintained his grip as Giles scratched at him. Giles’s face turned red, then purple and he made very satisfying gurgling sounds.

There were shouts from somewhere behind him, but Spike didn’t pay them any mind. A moment later, Dunham and Reynolds were upon him, both of them much stronger than he was. Dunham put an elbow around Spike’s neck and tried to pull Spike off, while Reynolds was frantically attempting to peel Spike’s fingers away. But Spike held on with all his might, because he knew this was his final chance.

Giles’s flailing movements were weakening. But Spike was weakening too, as Dunham cut off his air supply with a meaty arm. Dimly, Spike realized that Reynolds had managed to break some of his fingers, but the pain didn’t register, not now.

Giles’s spectacles had been knocked off his face and his eyes were bugging out. At the same time, though, Spike’s vision was dimming, going gray around the edges, and there was a rushing sound in his ears as if he were being buffeted by great waves. He tried to growl, but couldn’t inflate his lungs.

Giles went very still. Reynolds yelled as he managed to get one of Spike’s hands free.

The world dropped away.

 

***

 

He couldn’t move. That was a given. He was strapped again to the bloody table, the buckles cinched so tightly they were digging deeply into his flesh. He was muzzled. His head was pounding as if someone were taking a drill to it, his vision was wonky, his fingers felt twisted and wrong, and his throat felt as if there were burning sticks thrust into it. There was nobody else in the room, at least not that he could see or hear.

He was there a long time, so long that his bladder filled. At first it was just another of many discomforts, but eventually it began to bloody _hurt_, and finally he groaned and relaxed and wet himself. At least the urine was warm for a short time, and then it wasn’t, and the chill of the liquid on his skin made him shiver.

He pissed himself once more before anybody entered the room.

It was Dunham and Reynolds and two other orderlies, a pair of especially big blokes whose names he’d never bothered to learn. They didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. The minute they were near, Reynolds punched him hard in the groin. Spike grunted through the mask.

“That ain’t gonna do much good,” Dunham said. “Not when he ain’t got any balls.”

“It makes me feel a hell of a lot better,” Reynolds snarled. He grabbed Spike’s cock then and gave it a vicious twist.

“Come on. Stop messing around.”

The four of them unbuckled the straps and immediately wrestled him into heavy irons. His ankles were hobbled together only inches apart, his wrists were manacled tightly behind his back. Someone pushed him to the ground and he tried to curl protectively around his middle as heavy boots kicked and stomped him.

One of the goons grabbed his feet and yanked them up onto the goon’s shoulder. With the other orderlies surrounding him like some sort of twisted honor guard, Spike was dragged out of the room and down the hallway, his bound arms catching painfully and his head cracking against the floor as they went.

They came to the small cell, the dark one. The men didn’t unchain him before they kicked him inside and then slammed the door shut.

For a while it was a toss-up as to which was more agonizing. The muscles in his arms ached, his body felt bruised and hot and his chest burned every time he inhaled. And of course there were the old favorites, the headache and the sore throat and the chill in the air. But eventually a clear winner was called, as thirst clawed at him. He felt as if every cell in his body was desiccated. Perhaps they’d forget about him, he thought fuzzily. Not come back until he was a wizened mummy.

No such luck.

They did return, but only long enough to yank away the muzzle, stick a tube down his tortured throat, and pour something down it. Then the muzzle went on again and he was alone in the dark.

Repeat.

He’d lost all feeling in his arms, which was almost good, because it meant his fingers didn’t hurt any longer. He was forced to lay in his own waste, however, and he’d developed sores on his skin that burned and festered.

They dragged him out again eventually. They unfastened the manacles and he screamed as the nerves in his arms reawakened. He blacked out again when they hung him from the ceiling, but regained consciousness as he was still there, dripping ice-cold water, feeling Reynolds run the razor over his scalp. Then they shackled him to the wheelchair and rolled him down the corridor. “Gonna fix you for good,” Dunham said.

Spike automatically tensed when he saw that they were bringing him back to the examination room. This time, four other orderlies were there, and they pounced on him as Dunham and Reynolds moved to unchain him. He would almost have been flattered by their obvious fear of him, if he weren’t so bloody terrified.

Once again, they put him on the table and strapped him in. There were no stirrups this time, though. That should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t.

The orderlies stepped aside. He heard footsteps, calm and even. And there was Giles, frowning down at him. Spike groaned. He had really hoped that he’d manage to kill the bastard. Maybe that was impossible; maybe Dr. Giles really was a god. At least there was a ring of fading bruises visible over the top of his white collar, and that was a small solace.

“You are a difficult little shit, aren’t you?” Giles said. His voice was tight with hatred and a bit raspy. “I would have thought that neutering you would teach you something, but apparently you’re incredibly stupid.”

_Go ahead and rant, wanker_, Spike thought. _Won’t change the fact that I’ve got the better of you twice_.

Giles took a deep, cleansing breath. “Yes. Well, we’re going to remedy that once and for all, aren’t we?” He rubbed his hands together. “I shall be performing two procedures today, William. One of them is quite simple: I shall be severing the Achilles tendons. You will be able to walk afterward, but slowly, and I’d wager quite painfully. Of course, running will be out of the question, and I expect you shall have to travel the stairs on your hands and knees.”

Spike stared at him defiantly. What did it matter if the bastard cut him? Spike wasn’t going anywhere anyhow.

Giles smiled thinly at him and turned away. When he turned back, he was holding a tool in his hands. A drill. Spike began to breathe unevenly through his nose, and Giles’s grin widened as he saw Spike’s distress.

“A few years ago I attended the International Congress of Neurology. It was in London, you know—it was pleasant to have the opportunity to visit the old home. I saw an interesting presentation while I was there; it quite intrigued me. And then I recently read a paper that was published by a Portuguese gentleman, António Moniz. He’s done some work on a procedure that I believe may be the cutting edge in the treatment of psychiatric disorders. I’ve been anxious to attempt it, actually, so perhaps I ought to be pleased that you’ve presented me with such a good opportunity.”

He set the drill down on Spike’s stomach. It was heavy. He stroked his fingertips against Spike’s temples.

_Oh, no_, Spike thought. _No, please, no_. He hadn’t thought he was still capable of crying. Apparently he was.

Giles tenderly wiped a tear away with his thumb. “Well, let’s get started, shall we? I’m eager to see the results.”

  
[Chapter Twelve](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/170878.html)

 

  
  



	12. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 12/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (12 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ch0zd/)  
  
---  
  
**Twelve**

 

Xander made it home and into the bathroom before he vomited. Then he slammed the door in Willow’s anxious face—he could apologize later—and turned on the shower as hot as it would go and stripped off his whites. He soaped himself several times over and stayed under the stream until it was ice cold, but he still didn’t feel clean. He emerged from the bathroom with the towel around his hips, threw on some clothes—god, he wished they had sweatpants in 1939—and headed for the fridge. There were five bottles of Fischer’s Finest in there. He popped the top from one and drained it dry without even bothering to close the refrigerator door. Then he grabbed two more bottles and headed outside, onto the front porch.

He leaned up against the front rail and looked west across an endless field. Not north, where the asylum would have been visible if not for a line of cottonwood trees. The heat was oppressive and the air had the expectant quality that sometimes came before a storm. And sure enough, if he squinted at the horizon he could see a bank of clouds rolling their way.

He emptied a second bottle and set it down onto the worn, gray floorboards of the porch. He had just begun on the third when he heard light footsteps behind him and felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “Xan? What happened?”

He told her. He never once looked at her as he spoke, but kept his eye focused on the lines of cornstalks, as if he could draw some greater meaning from their symmetry. He kept his voice even, uninflected, but once he began speaking he found he couldn’t stop, and he poured out every detail of what he had seen that day until he ran out of words.

Willow cried at first, but by the time he finished and finally looked at her she had stopped, and she slumped on the porch swing with her face pale and tear-stained. He collapsed next to her and wished he had the energy to go inside and get another beer.

The sky was darkening with both twilight and the coming storm. Crickets chirped and fireflies flashed their sexy little lights. Xander put his arm around Willow’s shoulders and she snuggled close and they pushed the swing slowly.

“We’ll get him out of there,” she said.

“How? You can’t get in there to magic him out, and I sure as hell can’t do it.”

“We’ll think of something. We will. We haven’t come all this way to fail, okay?”

He wanted to believe her, he really did.

Later that night, as hail pounded the roof and the wind roared like a pack of Yrginta demons, Xander sat in the living room, not listening to the radio. He could just see Willow’s feet as she sat at the kitchen table. She had a pad of paper in front of her and he knew she was probably chewing on her pencil as she tried to brainstorm. He had no ideas to contribute. All he could think of was his regret that he hadn’t gone out earlier to buy more beer. If 7-Elevens had been invented yet, they hadn’t made their way to the Peoria metro area.

He was just considering turning in, and contemplating the odds of getting through the night without having horrible nightmares, when she came in and sat beside him. “I have a plan. Kind of,” she said.

He sighed. “A kind-of plan is better than nothing. What is it?”

“I need to do some research on possible spells. I have some vague ideas, but not enough, and I don’t want to risk making things worse.”

“And you think the Peoria Public Library is going to have what you’re looking for?”

“I doubt that very much. I’m going to Chicago. I can probably get any ingredients I need there. And I’ll sell some more jewelry. We’ll never get anything for it around here.”

He felt slightly panicky. “But…I don’t want to go to Chicago.” Although he wasn’t doing Spike any good here, leaving would feel like abandonment.

She patted his arm. “I know. You stay here and keep working at the hospital. It might take me a couple weeks.”

“A couple of weeks!”

“I have to find the right shops, dig up a coven and see if I can get them to help me. I _hate_ not having the Internet! I know it’s tough, but he’s been there over six years, Xan. Maybe you can do something to make him more…comfy in the meantime.”

“Comfy? Willow, they cut his balls off!” She winced at his shout and then he felt bad. More quietly, he said, “He won’t even talk to me. I told you. All he said was ‘Not him.’ Jesus, Will. He probably thinks I’m a…a fake Xander. Like creepy Giles.”

“It’s the only plan I have.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m just…just a little upset.”

She gave him a sad little smile. For a while they were quiet, listening to the storm rage.

“You know,” said Xander. “There were plenty of times I would’ve been happy to remove some of his body parts myself. Barehanded.”

“He did try to kill us. A lot.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it. I lived with him, remember? Twice. He was not a good roomie.”

“Oh?” She didn’t sound surprised.

“He left damp towels and blood-crusted mugs everywhere. He ate all my Cap’n Crunch, and that was totally unfair because he didn’t even need to eat. Drank everything with alcohol, too. And then he’d parade around in his birthday suit and smirk at me because he _knew_ I was in denial about the whole man-love thing.”

She smiled. “You had the hots for Spike?”

“Well…he was kinda…sexy.”

She shrugged. “Not my type.” She cocked her head at him. “But you two never….?”

“No! Gods, a world of no. I mean, like I said, I was buried so far in the closet you’d never have found me under the shoes and boxes of comic books. And anyway, he was…he was….”

“A vampire.”

“That was not necessarily a deal-breaker. Most of my lovers have been demon-flavored. But he was _Spike_, you know? ‘Course, if you’d told me back then that I’d be having a fling with Angel….”

 

 

***

 

The following morning, Xander and Willow took the Nash slowly down the mud-slick road into town, and he dropped her off at the train station. They didn’t have a phone at their little house, but she promised to stay in touch somehow, and she gave him a peck on the cheek before heading into the depot.

With Willow gone and the week stretching before him, Xander was left at loose ends. He had pretty much exhausted the entertainment possibilities in Peoria, and he’d already learned that a long drive in any direction left him somewhere that looked exactly like Peoria. He found himself missing the ocean.

The day after Willow left, he took himself out to lunch at a diner downtown. As he ate, an old lady hobbled down the sidewalk, and that gave him an idea. After his meal was finished, he drove over to his landladies’ house. They looked surprised to see him, but pleased. “Is s-something wrong, Mr. Harris?” Mrs. Hull asked, handing him a glass of lemonade. “That storm didn’t cause any d-damage, did it?”

“Oh, no. Everything’s fine. It’s just, Willow’s out of town—”

“She didn’t leave you, did she?” asked Mrs. Carlson. “These independent young women today, they won’t simply stay with a man just because he’s a man.”

“No, she didn’t leave me. She had to go on a research trip, that’s all.”

“Are you certain? Perhaps you weren’t keeping her satisfied and—”

“Anna!” Mrs. Hull turned bright red.

Mrs. Carlson didn’t look in the least sorry. “Thelma, I am 83 years old. If I want to speak my mind, I will.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Hull,” Xander laughed. “I don’t think the little lady and I have any problems in the satisfaction department. She really did need to look some stuff up in Chicago.”

Mrs. Carlson nodded and handed him a plate full of cookies. They were the kind with a spot of jam in the middle. He took one and, when she continued to hold the plate in front of him, he took another. He looked around the little parlor, where small statues of birds and angels warred with more exotic knick-knacks. Mrs. Carlson caught him looking. “Mr. Carlson and I traveled quite extensively in our younger days. A willingness to do so was one of his few redeeming qualities.”

“I’ll bet you saw a lot of interesting stuff.”

“We certainly did, young man. Mr. Carlson was a journalist, before he got old and boring and became a newspaper publisher instead. Now, to what do we owe this visit?”

He swallowed a bite of cookie. It was good. “Well, I was kinda thinking that with a house like this, there are always little things that need some fixing. Like, I noticed a couple of your front porch spindles are cracked. I’d be happy to do a little handyman work.”

Mrs. Carlson narrowed her eyes. “Are you unable to make the rent, young man? Because you’re quite delightful, but we do expect you to pay on time.”

Mrs. Hull said, “Really, Anna, w-we can wait—”

“No, it’s not that,” interrupted Xander. “The finances are solid. We, uh, inherited some money. It’s just that I have time on my hands, and a beautiful house like this deserves to look its best. If you don’t want me messing around with it, that’s fine. I won’t be offended.”

But they were both beaming. “We’d be very happy if you would,” said Mrs. Hull, and she patted his hand.

So he did odd jobs for them. He repaired the railing and fixed a broken toilet, he tightened this and patched that. It kept him busy, kept his mind off…other things. Mrs. Carlson liked to watch him work—to make sure he didn’t manage to chop off any of his body parts, she said—and while she did, she’d tell him stories about her younger days, which, he gathered, were a little wild. Mrs. Hull brought him cold drinks and a constant parade of snacks, and seemed to enjoy fussing over him a little. Watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye, Xander decided that Willow was right—these two ladies were a couple. The thought of it pleased him.

He went back to the asylum Thursday morning. He didn’t want to. Even thinking about it made his stomach churn. But right now their best hope of springing Spike seemed to involve Xander working there, so he swallowed the bile in his throat and put on the white uniform and drove to the menacing building.

In the dayroom, everything seemed to be the same as the previous week. Xander wondered whether there was ever any variety in the patients’ days, or whether they just dragged on endlessly, all identical and meaningless. It again took him a while to find Spike, but when he did, Spike wouldn’t talk to him. As soon as Xander got near, Spike would shuffle away. Xander couldn’t chase after him without being too obvious, so he decided instead to leave Spike be, and to observe the room in general, maybe keep an eye out for any opportunities.

His day was almost halfway done when he noticed something. Sometimes when the orderlies went into the lounge for their breaks, they’d glance around quickly first and then shove an inmate in there with them. The first time it happened, Xander got called away to clean up a major body fluid meltdown and he didn’t see them emerge. But the second time he was able to watch more carefully. The patient came out of the room first. He looked very young and had delicate features and big brown eyes. He’d been crying—his eyes were red and puffy and he was snuffling into his arm. He was limping slightly. As he walked past, Xander saw that the insides of the kid’s thighs were wet. A moment later the orderly appeared as well, still adjusting his clothing. Xander felt both sickened and enraged, and the only thing that kept him from throttling the guy was the knowledge that he had to play along if he didn’t want to fuck up his chance at saving Spike.

With only a couple hours left in the shift, two other orderlies took their breaks with patients. Reynolds was one of them, and the boy he molested had a red ass and a sad little hard-on when Reynolds was done with him.

Xander distracted himself with fantasies of the entire asylum sinking into a Sunnydale-style crater, orderlies and all.

Just before it was time to clock out, one of the patients planted himself in front of Xander. He was as skinny as the rest of them, short and dark, and his eyes were…weird. “You the boy,” he said.

“Okay,” Xander agreed. No point arguing with lunatics.

“The keys. The keys is the key.”

“Of course they are.”

“Gonna get you the keys.”

“Uh, thanks, buddy. That’s very nice of you.”

The patient nodded decisively and wandered off.

 

***

 

Xander got a letter on Friday. It was from Willow, of course, and written on stationery from the Palmer House Hotel. She was currently trying to persuade the owner of an occult bookshop that she was trustworthy enough to introduce to the coven. The lady was cautious, though, and Willow thought it might take a while longer. Willow had sold some more jewelry for a bunch more money, though, so at least she was well-funded.

Xander groaned when he was through reading. A while longer.

He again spent much of the week with his landladies. They made him dinner most nights. He saw a movie on Wednesday: _Sagebrush Riders _with Joel McCrea and Barbara Stanwyck. Then he bought a bottle of whiskey and took it home and got really, really wasted, because that was the only way he could face the thought of the following day.

In retrospect, though, going to the asylum with a hangover was not such a great idea. He slogged miserably through the day with the din piercing holes in his skull. He tried to talk to Spike again, but once more Spike avoided him. Reynolds and one of the other orderlies each had a turn in the lounge room with a patient. The little guy with the eyes approached Xander again and sang, “Gonna get you the keys,” before walking away.

Another letter arrived on Monday. Willow was making headway. The coven had let her in and had helped her find some good spells, and now she was searching for some elusive ingredients. Another week, she said. Maybe two.

The landladies gave him a present on Wednesday. It was a hat, a trilby, Mrs. Hull said. They said he looked dashing in it and he agreed. He kind of wished men still wore hats in the twenty-first century.

On Thursday, nearly three weeks after Willow left, Spike was gone. Xander didn’t believe it at first; he assumed he was just having more trouble than usual finding Spike among the chaos. But he kept looking, and when there was still no sign of Spike after several circuits of the room, Xander began to panic. Finally, he made his way over to Dunham, who was leaning up against a wall. As casually as possible, he asked, “What happened to that one guy?”

“Which guy? We gotta lotta guys here.”

“The one who, uh…the one who….” He copied Dunham’s snipping motion from a few weeks earlier.

“Oh. Willy. That little shit. He’ll be back, I guess. Why?”

“I was, um, just wondering. Do the patients move from one ward to another sometimes?”

“Nah. “ Dunham scratched his balls. “But sometimes the Doc needs ‘em for something. Research. He’s a pretty important man. Presents papers at conferences all over.”

Xander had grown fairly practiced at keeping his face impassive. “Oh. That’s cool.”

Dunham frowned. “What? What’s cool?”

“Sorry. It’s an expression, um, in California.”

“Damn Californians.” Dunham shook his head. Then he clapped a hand onto Xander’s shoulder. In a low voice, he said, “Look, you been around for a few weeks now. You seem like a good enough guy. If you wanna little...private time with one of the loonies, just tell me. It’s kind of a fringe bennie, ya know? And the crazies, they don’t know any different. Hell, some of ‘em like it.”

Xander clenched his teeth and forced a smile. “Thanks.”

He vomited again when he got home that night, until he had nothing left to bring up and his throat felt scoured and raw.

On Friday, he found a payphone in downtown Peoria and called the Palmer House. Willow wasn’t in, so he left her a short message: “Spike is missing. Come back quick.” He wondered what the hotel desk clerk made of it.

Saturday just before lunch, a taxi cab rumbled to a halt in front of the house. Xander was out on the porch at the time, staring at infinity. He watched as Willow climbed out of the car and paid the driver, then came running toward him as fast as she could with two full suitcases. He met her halfway and helped her with the carrying. “Goddess, Xan, what happened?” she asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know. He just wasn’t there. That asshole Dunham said he’d be back, but I don’t like it. I think Giles is…doing something to him.”

“I’m sorry, Xan. I was as fast as I could be, but Amelia—that’s the witch I met—she’s pretty much in the closet with the whole witchcraft thing, and then there was this problem getting dried galangal root, ‘cause the Mob has a lot of the herb market all tied up and there are no Thai restaurants here yet and people just look at you weird when you ask, and—”

“Will!”

She shut her mouth with a pop.

“Did you figure out how to get him out of there?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. If we’re lucky.”

 

***

 

The plan was simple, yet full of holes. But Xander wasn’t willing to wait any longer for them to come up with something better.

Wednesday night, neither of them could sleep. Xander paced anxiously around the little house and then back and forth on the porch, bare-chested and sweat-sticky. Willow busied herself in the kitchen with her potions and charms. Her hair had grown long and she had it tied back, but it was still all frizzy. There was no decent conditioner to be found in this world, she said. Before the sun had begun to lighten the sky at all, Xander stood before her, naked and blushing furiously, while she rubbed something vaguely minty on his back and chest, and sprinkled bits of Zeus-knew-what all over him, and chanted at him multilingually. He was relieved when he was able to put on the white uniform for what he very much hoped was the last time.

They had already packed up the few belongings they had managed to accumulate and stuffed them in the back of the car. Xander had written a long letter to their landladies; they would drop if off later, along with the keys to the house. With a last look around, they climbed into the Nash with Willow behind the wheel and headed north.

When they got to the asylum, Willow parked as close to the front doors as she could. She dug into her bag, which lay on the seat between them, and handed him a bent twig that was about six inches long. “Now, you remember how to use it, right? It’s kind of like a dowsing rod, and—”

“I got it, Will. We went over it a bunch of times.”

She nodded and squeezed his shoulder. Then she sort of scrunched down in the seat, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. He got out of the car, tucked the stick inside his shirt and took a deep breath.

Xander joined the other orderlies as they filed inside. Nurse Fremont nodded briefly at them. Once inside the locker room, Xander dropped a handful of change into his locker, just so it seemed like he was leaving something there. He clocked in and, along with several others, followed Dunham upstairs.

He waited nervously in the dayroom as the patients were brought up. If absolutely necessary, he could use Willow’s magic to find wherever Spike was being kept. But that would add time and complications, and it would be a lot simpler if Spike came in with the group.

But before even half of the inmates had filed in, Dunham pulled him aside and took him into the storage room, where Xander was instructed to organize a twisted mass of chains and ropes. That took him a long time—over an hour—and he swore anxiously under his breath the entire time. When he emerged, the patients were just finishing up their breakfasts, which meant a lot of messes to clean up. He looked around for Spike as he mopped.

He was almost convinced that Spike wasn’t there, when he noticed a small figure slumped against the wall like a broken doll. The stick-thin man had his head down and his arms crossed over it, as if he were protecting himself from an attack from above. As Xander made his way closer, he realized that the patient was sitting in a pool of urine. It couldn’t be Spike, he thought, but he went closer anyway so he could mop up the puddle and try to get the poor guy clean. The man whimpered like a hurt animal when Xander stopped beside him.

Xander bent his knees and, in the calmest tone he could manage, said, “Hey, buddy. Not gonna hurt you. Let’s just do a little clean up on aisle five, okay?” He gently pushed the arms down to the man’s side. And then the man looked up at him.

Xander almost screamed. He jumped backwards so quickly he nearly fell on his ass.

It was Spike. His blue eyes were fuzzy and unfocused, and they had thick black circles under them. His mouth hung open slackly and drool ran down his chin, all the way to his thin chest. High on his forehead were two circular wounds, one on each side. Although the skin itself had been stitched closed and had begun to heal, it was still very obvious that beneath each wound was a deep dent about the size of a nickel.

Spike blinked his eyes slowly, as if he were trying to wake from a heavy sleep, then made a small sort of grunt and again covered his head with his arms. Xander stood over him, hyperventilating, chanting, “Shit shit shit shit,” to himself.

“Told you he’d be back,” Dunham said right behind him, making Xander jump. “Little fucker’s really fixed for good now.”

Xander felt his fists ball up at his sides. “What…what….”

“It’s something new. It’s called, um….” Dunham scratched at his head. “Lobo—something.”

“Lobotomy,” Xander whispered.

“Yeah! That’s it. Doc says it’s the latest thing.”

“Why? Why would you do this to him?”

Dunham gave him an odd look. “He’s just a crazy, remember. And we’ve tried to civilize him a little bit, but he ain’t learned nothing. He’s vicious. Couple of weeks back, he tried to strangle the Doc. So Doc stirred up his brains a little, and now Willy can’t hardly even walk by hisself. Specially since Doc hobbled his tendons, too.”

“Bastard.”

“Yeah, well, he’s really fixed now.”

Xander didn’t bother to tell the other man that he hadn’t been referring to Spike. With the blood rushing in his head so loudly it even drowned out the room’s usual din, Xander marched stiffly away.

He wasn’t certain there was any point now in trying the plan. He’d seen zombies that were more lively than Spike. But he’d come here to rescue him and that’s what he was going to do, goddamn it, even if he was just dragging away an empty shell.

Mop in hand, he walked toward the lounge room and considered how he was going to do the next part. That was one of the holes in his plan. But just as he was wondering if he could manage to force the lock without anyone noticing, the patient with the strange eyes parked himself in front of Xander.

“Not now, pal. I have stuff to do,” Xander said.

The man didn’t move. “I got the key. The key is the key,” he smiled.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

The man tilted his head a little. “You gotta key and love, that’s all you need.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. But look, man—”

But the patient stuck his hand out toward Xander and uncurled his fingers from his palm. The skin was strangely smooth—a fortune teller would get nowhere with this guy—but directly in the center of his hand was a small, worn metal object. A key.

Xander blinked. “What—where—”

The man jerked his head to the side, in the direction of Dunham, who was talking to another orderly. “He don’t need it. He got no love.” He grinned again and stuck the key into Xander’s shirt pocket. Then he walked away.

Bemused, Xander pulled the key back out and stuck it into the opening in the lounge door. The lock clicked open easily.

Well, he could wonder later. Now was the time to act, at long last. Xander walked back towards Spike, who was still in his protective hunch. With a quick, furtive look around the room, Xander mumbled Willow’s words by rote. There was no obvious effect.

Although he had no magical abilities of his own, the stuff Willow had done to him a few hours earlier was supposed to make him temporarily able to work small enchantments. Theoretically. The words he said were a spell that was meant to lay a small glamour over him, so that he and anything or anybody he touched would be temporarily…inconspicuous. Not invisible or anything—that required much more juice than he had—but Willow said other people’s gaze would just tend to skitter away from him, and bystanders wouldn’t notice anything he was doing as long as he kept it fairly quiet. She thought.

But the spell wouldn’t last long at all. With a silent prayer to anyone who would listen, Xander reached down and grabbed Spike’s bicep, and used it to haul Spike to his feet. Spike didn’t struggle. He just stood there, staring blankly, swaying very slightly. When Xander began to tug Spike toward the door, Spike came along docilely, although slowly and awkwardly. He moaned very slightly with every step. Looking down, Xander saw ugly red slashes on the back of Spike’s heels.

Nobody stopped them as they made their way across the room. In fact, nobody even seemed to look at them. Xander eased open the lounge door and maneuvered Spike through it, then locked it behind them. Spike tottered a few steps to the nearest chair, put his palms on the back of it, bent over with his legs spread, and then waited.

“Oh, fuck, no, Spike,” Xander said. “I’m not gonna—let’s go, okay?”

Spike stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Xander didn’t have time for explanations. He took Spike’s arm again and led him to the other door, which was also locked, but which opened easily with the key.

Spike stood for a moment at the top of the stairway before he turned around, got stiffly onto his knees, and began to crawl backwards down the steps. It was the most painful thing that Xander had ever had to watch. At the bottom, Spike straightened up on his stork-like legs and stood like a robot waiting for his next command.

“Oh, Spike,” Xander whispered as he descended the stairs.

He unlocked the door in front of them. Taking Spike’s right hand in his left, he pulled out the stick from under his shirt. This was the next tricky part—finding their way out of this maze. “Maticande tribixum,” he said. The twig twitched in his grip and subtly but definitely pulled them forward.

They walked the length of a short hallway that ended in an open doorway. Passing through, they found themselves inside the kitchen. Patients in pajamas were standing at huge sinks, hosing off towering piles of metal bowls and cups, while a few men in white stirred bubbling cauldrons of what smelled like boiled tennis shoes. Nobody paid any attention as Spike and Xander made their way slowly through the room. Spike didn’t look around at all; his gaze seemed to be fixed securely on his feet.

The stick tugged Xander toward a door, and then down the usual bewildering twists and turns of hallways. If he hadn’t had his magic wand, he would have been helplessly lost almost immediately. But the twig seemed to know what it was doing, and they kept on.

Spike’s steps became more faltering, his moans of pain more marked. He stumbled and would have fallen if Xander hadn’t caught him. “Hurts,” Spike said. It was the first word he’d said, and his tongue sounded thick and clumsy, his voice tiny and lost.

“I know. I’m sorry. We’re almost there.” Xander continued to pull Spike along.

He was just beginning to wonder if he was going to have to carry Spike when they turned a corner and he finally found himself somewhere familiar. He heaved a small sigh of relief. They really were almost there.

So of course at that very moment, a big wooden door swung open and out strode Giles. He looked straight at the both of them and frowned. “You! What are you doing with that patient?”

Great. The spell had worn off.

Giles marched angrily toward them. Spike pulled himself free of Xander’s grip and crouched down on the floor, rocking and whining.

Xander said, “I’m just, uh, Dunham told me to bring him here. He said you wanted to see him.”

“Nonsense! Dunham did no such thing. Return him to the dayroom at once and then we shall have a discussion concerning the consequences of your actions.”

Giles closed the last few feet between them. Spike whispered, “No, please, no.” And Xander pulled back his fist and then swung it, planting it solidly and satisfyingly in the center of Giles’s face.

There was a loud _crack_. Xander wasn’t sure whether it was the doctor’s nose or his glasses. Both, if he was very lucky. Giles bellowed like a wounded water buffalo and brought his hands up to his face, which was spurting blood fairly spectacularly. Xander used the opportunity to land another blow, this time in Giles’s slightly soft belly. And as Giles grunted and started to double over, Xander kicked him as hard as he could in the balls. Giles made an agonized sort of screech and collapsed, clutching himself.

“That last one was especially for Spike,” Xander said, and he kicked at the asshole’s head for good measure.

He really did have to carry Spike after that, because Spike was either unwilling or unable to move. But that was okay, because Xander knew his way out now without the stick, so he shoved it into his back pocket. And Spike turned out to be very light, which wasn’t a big surprise considering he was hardly more than a skeleton with skin. Xander heaved Spike over his shoulder and Spike just sort of hung there.

The guard at the barred door gaped at them. “Hey there,” Xander said, and did a neat little maneuver with one hand that he’d learned in the Congo. The guy who taught it to him called it something in Lingala, but Xander thought of it as the Vulcan death grip. The guard crashed to the floor, unconscious. Xander had to fumble a little to unlock the bars and then the second-to-last door, but then they were in the lobby, with Nurse Fremont staring at them open-mouthed.

“Wait!” she said as Xander walked by. “What are you doing? You can’t do that!”

“I’m making a withdrawal,” Xander said without looking back at her.

He heard her footsteps as she ran away, no doubt in search of Dr. Giles. So Xander hastened his pace as much as he could, and he was out the last door, finally outside of that hell on earth. Willow was waiting for him in the car, all big eyes and open mouth.

Xander carefully dumped Spike into the back seat, then climbed in beside him. Spike tried to scramble away, maybe to cram himself into the rear footwell, but Xander grabbed him and drew him tightly into his arms.

“Xander! What hap—”

“Later, Will. Let’s run by the landladies’ and then get the fuck out of this town.”

 

  



	13. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 13/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (13 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cxpcr/)  
  
---  
  
**Thirteen**

 

He didn’t understand.

He tried, he really did. But thinking was like slogging through shoulder-high mud, and it was so much easier to simply stay still. That’s what he had been doing since the Doctor had broken him—staying still.

But now this man had come, and he’d taken Spike out of the room, which was bad, and brought him near the Doctor’s office, which was worse, and then he had hurt the Doctor, which was the worst of all. If you hurt the Doctor he would break you.

Spike wondered if the Doctor knew it wasn’t him that did it, it was the man in white. Maybe the Doctor wouldn’t care.

But the man in white took Spike outside and put him in a car, and that must be bad, too. That was going away. He wasn’t allowed to go away because he was crazy and he was bad.

Spike remembered some things. He had had a car once, a big black one. He missed it. He didn’t remember where it went. Perhaps they took it away to punish him. And he remembered a boy who looked like this man in white, a boy with only one eye, and he remembered that the boy had kept him in his home. But this wasn’t that boy, he knew that. It was only a trick they played, to see if he would be bad. This was a man in white and the men in white hurt him. Spike was afraid of him.

Still. _This_ man hadn’t hurt him, not yet, and Spike felt safe with him because he looked like the one-eyed boy. Harris.

The man was warm and he held Spike tightly, but it didn’t hurt. The car moved, but Spike didn’t look; he hid his face against the man’s white shirt. The car stopped. Spike startled when the door opened and slammed shut, but the man stayed with him and held him. When the door opened again a few minutes later, the man said, “Will, can you get him something to wear from my suitcase? It won’t fit, but nudity’s probably a no-go.”

“Sure, Xan,” said a voice. A woman’s voice, and it was familiar, too.

There was more slamming, then the man was pulling a shirt over Spike’s head, and the fabric felt so strange against his skin. The man pulled trousers on him as well, and that scared Spike again, because he wasn’t permitted clothing.

Nobody punished him, though, and soon the car was moving again.

The man talked with the woman for a long time and Spike didn’t understand any of it. But the man’s voice grew loud and angry, and Spike cowered away until the man drew him close again and in a soft voice, a nice voice, said, “It’s okay. It’s okay, Spike.”

He called him Spike. That was strange. The others called him Willy.

The people talked a while longer but Spike only listened to the man’s heartbeat, which was so strong.

“Are you awake, Spike?” the man asked after a while, and Spike blinked up at him.

“Do you know who we are?” said the man.

“Not…not Harris,” said Spike. It was hard to talk.

“No, I’m the real Xander Harris. The one you knew from Sunnydale.”

Spike whimpered. More tricks. Speaking about Sunnydale meant speaking of being a vampire, and that was bad and crazy and wrong.

“Hey, it’s all right. Sunnydale doesn’t bring back a lot of happy memories for me, either. But I really am Xander, and this is Willow. Do you remember her?”

“Red.”

“That’s right.”

“Not her. ‘T’s a trick.”

“No, no tricks. We’re going to go someplace safe, and then we’ll take you home.”

Spike couldn’t help tensing. He didn’t want to go back to the asylum, even though he knew he was meant to be there. Perhaps if he was very still and very good, they’d let him stay here a while longer, where he was warm and the seat cushion was soft and the man’s heart beat so comfortingly in his ear.

The man said more words, but Spike didn’t understand them. Besides, the unaccustomed motion of the car was making him feel a bit sick and his head hurt and everything all at once—when there had been so much nothing for so long—was overwhelming. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

 

***

 

“Gah! Jesus!”

Spike yelped and tried to scurry away, but his mind was even fuzzier than usual and he didn’t remember where he was and he went sliding half-off the seat and onto the floor, where his limbs wouldn’t obey him and he couldn’t move. He started to cry. “No, please, please, please,” because he hadn’t meant to be bad and he didn’t want to be hurt anymore and he couldn’t get away.

“What is it, Xan?” asked the woman.

“It’s…Christ. He pissed himself, that’s all. Now we’re both wet. And he’s jammed behind your seat.”

“Hang on, I’ll pull over.

The car stopped and more doors opened, and then both of the people were clutching at his arms, trying to draw him back up. He would have cowered away but there was no room, and then he was back on the seat, back in the man’s arms. “It’s okay,” the man said. “You just kinda took me by surprise, that’s all.” He didn’t look angry, Spike didn’t think, but he wasn’t certain.

Spike hid his face in the man’s shirt again.

“What do you want to do, Xan?” the woman asked.

“Let’s find a motel or something, okay? We can get cleaned up and find something to eat. Spike’s not exactly fit for public, I think.”

“We’ll be in Iowa City in, like, fifteen minutes. Can you hang on until then?”

“Yeah. Working at that place has made me relatively immune to the horrors of body fluids anyway.”

They kept moving for a bit—Spike’s grasp of time was very poor—and stopped again. As the woman went somewhere, Spike hesitantly peeled himself away from the man and peeked out the window. He was certain he’d see the asylum looming over them, but instead there were a scattering of tiny buildings and a car park with two cars in it. Spike and the man just sat there, and Spike stared at the sky, which seemed bluer than it did through the asylum windows.

When the woman came back, the man opened the door and climbed out. He helped Spike out as well—it was very awkward, and Spike almost fell, and then the sharp gravel hurt his feet. They walked only a short way, though, into one of the little buildings. There were two beds there, and a table and a chest of drawers.

“Wait here,” the man said to Spike, and started to leave.

Spike clutched at him in panic. The man was his only anchor right now. But the man gently disengaged him. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get our suitcases.”

Spike trailed uncertainly behind him, but the man stopped him at the doorway. “Stay here, Spike,” he said, and Spike did, because he wanted to be good. He watched, though, as the man went out to the car and removed two suitcases from the boot and then, to Spike’s relief, came back.

“Will? You think you can go dig up some grub? And maybe something for him to wear? I’ll do the scrubbing while you’re gone, and get rid of these goddamn whites.”

“Yeah, sure. And then we need to talk, okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Spike clung to the man as the woman walked by. She smiled at him, though. “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster, sweetie.”

He didn’t understand, so he just looked down at his feet.

After she left, the man looked at Spike. “C’mon, Fangless,” he said.

They went through a door into a small bathroom. Xander pointed at the toilet. “Do you know what that is?”

Spike nodded.

“Okay. If you have to piss again or take a crap, use that, okay? Please? Can you do that?”

It took Spike a moment to decipher the words, then he nodded again. “No mess,” he said.

“That’s right.” The man moved to the bath and did something that made water come rushing out. Spike watched in fascination as the water swirled and bubbled.

“You gotta take off your clothes,” the man said.

Spike blinked and then tugged slightly at the bottom of the shirt the man had put on him. The man sighed. “Yeah, okay.” With a bit of difficulty, he peeled Spike’s clothing off him. Then he helped Spike into the bath.

Spike moaned with pleasure as soon as he was submerged. The water felt lovely, so much better than the cold hoses at the asylum. Better yet, the man unwrapped a little bar of soap and began to run it over Spike’s chest and arm and legs. His touch was very gentle, nothing like the harsh and taunting handling Spike had received from the other men in white. The man talked to him as he worked, but Spike couldn’t make any sense out of what he said, so he closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the edge of the bath and allowed a series of sensory images to dance through his damaged mind. They were all warped and distorted, and he wasn’t certain which of them were true, but they were comforting as well—the feel of a solid embrace, the taste of whiskey and cigarette smoke, the scent of leather, the sound of fast music. He hadn’t been able to think of these things in ages, he reckoned.

He was startled when the man pulled the bathtub's plug. The man looked at him critically. “Well, you’re cleaner, anyway.” He helped Spike out of the bath and dried him with a big white towel and led him back into the other room. When Spike simply stood, the man sat him down on a bed.

“Who…who are you?” Spike managed to ask.

“I told you. I’m Xander. You stayed with me before, twice.”

Spike still didn’t believe that this man was the boy he remembered. But still, he seemed to be _a_ Xander Harris, and he’d been kind so far. “Xander,” Spike whispered.

“That’s right. Now rest. I’m gonna shower,” Xander said.

Spike didn’t want to be alone. He followed Xander back into the bathroom. “Gonna shower, Spike. It’s not a participation event.”

Spike stared blankly at him.

“Fine. Just…sit.”

Spike sank down onto the tile floor. He watched as Xander undressed, and then that was strange, because he wasn’t a man in white anymore, but only a man, and Spike thought he recalled embarrassing the real Xander a few times by purposely catching the boy naked. Xander removed the eye-patch before he climbed under the water.

Spike leaned back against the wall and gazed at Xander as he cleansed himself. It was the most entertainment he’d had in ages. Xander looked at him now and then, but didn’t say anything. That was fine. Spike wished they could just go on like this. This must be the safe place. That meant they would be going back soon. Where the Doctor would be waiting, and he would be so angry. Spike shuddered.

By the time Xander was dried and dressed, the woman was waiting for them in the other room. She blushed and looked away. “Um, clothes. In the bag over there.” She pointed.

“I don’t think he’s shy about it, Will.”

Even though Spike didn’t understand what they said, he liked the rhythm of their conversation. It was soothing.

Xander dressed Spike again in a t-shirt and a pair of lightweight trousers. Then he led Spike to the table and sat him down on a chair—that felt odd—and put something in front of him. “That’s a sandwich. Eat up. And here’s some milk for strong bones and growing ex-vampires.”

Spike didn’t know how to eat this food. So Xander helped him, and it tasted so wonderful that Spike began to cry again and Xander patted his shoulder and helped him with the milk. The woman came over when he was done eating, and she looked carefully at Spike’s head and frowned.

“Did they do shit like this in our world, too?” Xander asked.

“Yep. They didn’t have much in the way of meds yet, so they’d use restraints a lot. I think electroshock therapy was pretty big, or they’d induce seizures with insulin and stuff. And they did lobotomies. This must have been before the icepick version.”

“Icepick?”

“Instead of drilling holes in the skull, they’d go in through the eye socket and—”

“Ah! Definitely TMI. Got plenty of eye-related issues as it is, thanks very much. It’s fucking barbaric, is what it is.”

They both looked at Spike then, and it made him uncomfortable so he hid his face in his arms.

“Come here,” Xander said, helping Spike to his feet. “Do you need the bathroom?”

“No,” Spike said, but he actually wasn’t sure. Xander must have sensed that, because he took Spike back into the little room and unfastened his trousers and helped him sit on the toilet. When Spike was finished, Xander led Spike to one of the beds. “Why don’t you rest? Will and I have to talk.”

He started to walk away, but Spike grabbed at his hand. “Please. Stay. I….” He couldn’t find the words. “Please.”

So Xander climbed onto the mattress beside him, and Spike scooted over and wrapped his arms around Xander, because even if this wasn’t his Xander, he was safe and good. Xander rubbed absently at the back of Spike’s bald skull. Spike liked that and cuddled closer, until he was nearly draped across Xander’s lap. His body soaked up the contact eagerly. Lulled by the voices, he dozed off, wondering vaguely whether he’d awaken alone in his hard cot in the asylum.

  
[Chapter Fourteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/172138.html)

 


	14. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 14/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

_   
**Madhouse (14 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cf0b4/)  
  
---  
  
**Fourteen**

 

Xander looked down at the sleeping man in his lap and sighed. “If he was still a vamp I’d just stake him, Will. Put him out of his misery. This isn’t Spike.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“Will he get better?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not much. He’ll probably do better now that he’s free from that place, but brain tissue doesn’t regenerate.”

Xander knew that. He was just hoping Willow would say something different. “What’s gonna happen to him when we get back? He has nobody except Angel, and with the whole Wolfram &amp; Hart thing, I don’t think Angel’s in much of a position to play nurse.”

“Maybe Buffy and the other slayers….”

“No. He didn’t even want her to know he survived Sunnydale. Angel said Spike wanted Buff to remember him as a hero. Besides, she couldn’t manage keep a goldfish alive for more than three weeks. How well would she do with a human being?”

“And I can’t, Xan. With the travel I’ve been doing—”

“I know. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. He’s not your responsibility anyway.”

“Yours either.”

Xander looked down at Spike again and winced at the wounds on his head. Spike’s arms were still twined tightly around Xander’s waist. “It pretty much looks like he is.”

“He has taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”

Xander snorted. “I told you he wasn’t himself. I guess I’m just familiar, and that’s what he needs. I still don’t know if he understands which Xander I am, though.” As he spoke, he realized that he was stroking Spike’s delicate-looking scalp, but he didn’t stop.

“We could find a…a home for him. A nursing home,” Willow said. Then hastened to add, “Someplace lots better than the asylum!”

“Can you really picture him hanging with the old folks and…I don’t know. Crocheting doilies or whatever they do. Besides, how the hell would we explain his injuries? Heck, how the hell would we explain _him_? He doesn’t have any papers—no birth certificate, no passport, no nothing.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “You’re thinking of keeping him yourself, aren’t you?”

“He’s not a stray puppy, Will. But, um, yeah.” He didn’t recall making that decision, actually, but now that he’d said it he knew it was true.

“But how can you? You have work, right? He needs someone with him 24/7. And if Angel hasn’t straightened out his lawyer mess while we’ve been gone, you’ll have that to deal with, too.”

“I know.” Spike looked so fragile, he thought, like he might crumble at the lightest touch. “But what else can I do?”

Willow was gnawing on her lip. “I…I might have an idea.”

“Gods, yes, please! Lay it on me, oh enlightened one.”

“It’s risky.”

“Of course it is. Because nothing is ever gonna be easy for us in any world. It’s a constant.” Spike twitched a little and whimpered slightly in his sleep. The sound of it twisted Xander’s heart. _This is stupid_, he reminded himself. _It’s Spike you’re all flustered over. Knock it off._ He didn’t listen to his own advice though, and instead gently smoothed the back of Spike’s long neck.

“When I was in Chicago, I looked up some stuff on alternate dimensions. I thought it might help me find some way to get Spike out of there.” She sighed. “It didn’t. But I did find this interesting book on how to move between worlds. This German guy, Johann Somebody, wrote it back in the 1600s, and he wrote it in Latin, which kind of sucks because my Latin’s pretty bad, but then my Renaissance German is even worse.”

Xander waited for her to get to the point. He was sure there would be one eventually.

“So I tried to translate it, and Amelia helped a little, and so did her daughter, Beatrice. Between the three of us we got the gist of it, I think. Most of it wasn’t all that helpful, really. But there was this one part where Johann talks about how sometimes people are yanked away from their home world unwillingly. Which is pretty much what happened to Spike and Angel, right? And he has this spell that he claims will give complete restoration.”

“Which means?”

“It means the person is returned to their original dimension in the condition in which they left it. He thought it might be handy if you were gone, like, a really long time and you wanted to end up back home the same age you were when you left.”

“Would it fix Spike? Repair all the damage Giles did to him?”

“Maybe.”

“Then do it!”

“The spell’s tricky, and I don’t know if it even works. Johann never says he tried it himself. You’re talking about rearranging someone’s molecular structure, and that’s…kinda iffy. Also, um…even if it worked, I’m pretty sure he’d end up as a vampire again.”

“With a soul?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Johann didn’t exactly have any souled vampire guinea pigs.”

“So let me review our choices.” He stopped petting Spike so he could tick the options off on the fingers of his right hand. His left hand didn’t have enough fingers. “One, he stays here and either I’m stuck with him or he’s left to the mercy of monsters like Giles. Two, we bring him back as-is and figure out someplace where he can hang around and wait to die. Three, you try Herr Johann’s mojo and Spike ends up in a zillion bite-size pieces. Four, you try the mojo and Spike’s revamped and back to his old serial killing ways. Or five, you try and it’s all hunky-dory and there are rainbows and chocolate ice cream all around.”

She thought for a minute, then nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Christ. Well, it’s better odds than Vegas, I guess. I just hope Spike’s a gambling man.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will. What do we have to do?”

“Well, first off, we need to head back over the Illinois border. I’ll call Amelia and tell her to expect us tomorrow.”

 

***

 

Willow said she felt antsy and she went for a walk. Xander was afraid he’d wake Spike if he tried to extricate himself, so he tipped his head back against the headboard and closed his eye. He hadn’t slept with anyone since they’d left their home world and he’d missed the contact. He remembered that Spike had never spent much time alone, not even when he was evil. No wonder the former vampire was so desperate to touch someone, to hang onto him, even if that someone was Xander.

Xander dozed for a while, until Spike stirred and then startled. Spike blinked up at him with wide blue eyes.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Xander said. “How about a bathroom break?” Because getting peed on once in a day was enough.

Spike docilely allowed himself to be towed to the toilet and unzipped. As Xander leaned against the sink and waited, he wondered if Spike had ever been this agreeable before, even back in his original human days. Oddly, he found himself missing the snark and the swaggering bravado that were Spike’s usual stock-in-trade.

Spike and Xander emerged from the bathroom just as Willow returned bearing more food. Again, Xander sat Spike down at the table, and this time he fed Spike some soup and wiped Spike’s chin when he dribbled, then gave him little bits of the roast beef and potatoes Willow had brought. He didn’t want Spike to get sick from suddenly eating food so much richer than his usual, but it was rewarding to see Spike open his mouth eagerly, like a baby bird, and to hear him make tiny noises of satisfaction.

After Spike was fed, Xander ate, too. Spike watched him as if the Xander Show were the most fascinating thing ever.

“Good,” said Spike quietly when the food was all gone.

“Yeah, it was. Good hunter-gathering, Willow.”

“Thanks.”

“They didn’t have the Army out combing the countryside for us, I take it?”

“No. I think we’re pretty safe over state lines. Besides, I’m not sure Giles is even gonna tell anyone that Spike’s missing.”

Xander couldn’t help but notice that Spike had tensed when Willow said Giles’s name. Xander patted Spike’s hand reassuringly. “Why wouldn’t he say anything, Will? I mean, one of his inmates escaped. You’d think he’d at least call the cops.”

She shook her head. “Nobody outside the asylum’s even going to notice that he’s missing. Once the judge signed Spike over, that was the end of him for the outside world. Giles isn’t going to want to advertise that he’s managed to lose one of his patients.”

“Probably wouldn’t go over real well with the neighbors.”

“Nope. And it might spur an investigation of some kind, which he really doesn’t want.”

“He’s gonna get one anyway, if things go right.”

Spike was watching the conversation, moving his head back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. He was frowning.

“I-I’m going home?” he asked.

“Not yet, honey,” Willow said. “We have some things to do first.”

Spike looked relieved, which puzzled Xander for a moment. Then it dawned on him. “Spike? Where’s home?”

Spike mulled this over. “The…the…the white men. The Doctor.” He buried his face in his hands.

“Jesus,” Xander swore. “He doesn’t understand…. Spike, we’re not going back there. No more Doctor, okay? That’s not your home.”

Spike pulled his hands away and looked at Xander with his brow all furrowed. “Not home? But…’m bad.”

Xander squeezed Spike’s hand. “You’re not bad. Giles, the orderlies—the white men—they’re the bad ones.”

Spike just looked skeptical and confused. “I promise you, Spike,” Xander said, “you’re safe. Nobody is going to hurt you anymore. You’ll never go back to the asylum. Do you understand?”

Spike shook his head miserably.

Willow said, “That’s okay.” She took his other hand.

“So did you explore the many delights of Iowa City while you were gone?” Xander asked, hoping a change of subject might help Spike relax.

“Not a lot of delightfulness, really. It’s cute, though. Everybody’s really friendly. And I found a pay phone and called Amelia. I think she’s kind of excited to meet a former vampire.”

Spike flinched. “No. Not…not vampire. Bad.”

Xander stood and gently pulled Spike to his feet. “What should we do, huh? No TV, you’re in no shape for a stroll, and I’m not tired.”

Spike wobbled a little, then grabbed onto Xander, wrapping his skinny arms around Xander’s torso and burying his face in the crook of Xander’s neck.

“Okay,” Xander said. “I guess we’re cuddling.” He embraced Spike back, and it felt nice, really nice.

“I’ve got some books,” Willow said.

“You know reading’s not my thing, and I doubt Spike can.”

“But I can read out loud. It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Xander dragged Spike over to the bed—their bed, he guessed, because he had the feeling he wasn’t going to be sleeping solo that night—and made himself comfortable on the mattress. Spike immediately squirmed up against him, half on him, really. Willow sat on the other bed and pulled out a couple of volumes. “Okay. Let’s see. We’ve got _The Grapes of Wrath_, _Rebecca_, and _The Citadel_. Um, probably not that last one. It’s about a doctor.”

Spike whimpered. “Good call,” Xander said. “And that’s quite a cheery combo, Will. Let’s do _The_ _Grapes_. It’ll remind me of home.”

So Willow read about the Joads and Spike and Xander listened. Spike probably didn’t understand a word, but he was calm and he watched Willow as she spoke. Xander discovered himself once again stroking Spike’s head and Spike nudged into the touch like a cat.

Willow read until her voice was hoarse, and Xander had to admit, it was nice. They felt like family. A really fucking weird family, but a better one than the one he’d been born into. When she put the book away, Xander took Spike for another bathroom visit and used the toilet himself as Spike watched, which made Xander blush uncomfortably. Xander brushed his own teeth and considered brushing Spike’s as well. But a glance into Spike’s mouth revealed a nightmare of epic proportions—clearly, dental hygiene had not been a priority at the asylum. Xander decided Spike’s teeth were beyond anything he could do, and he’d just have to hope Willow’s magic would reconstitute them, too.

When they came out of the bathroom, Willow waved at them and went in. “Are you tired?” Xander asked Spike.

“I…I don’t….”

“Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

Spike looked around the room, as if he wasn’t sure where someone might do such a thing.

“In the bed, Spike.”

Spike moved hesitantly towards the bed—he was still wincing with every step, Xander noticed—and then simply stood there. Xander sighed. “Let’s get the clothing off.” He sighed again when Spike pulled aimlessly at his own sleeve.

“I never thought I’d be an ex-vampire valet.” Xander helped Spike off with his clothing again. He looked so pitiful naked—every rib sticking out and his belly concave, his devastated groin, his skin as pale as when he’d been a vamp—such a marked contrast to the beauty Xander had tried very hard not to notice when they’d roomed in the past.

Spike watched as Xander stripped down to his boxers, and then they both climbed under the covers. Not surprisingly, Spike squashed himself tightly against Xander. “I sleep here?” Spike whispered.

“That’s the idea.”

Spike poked at a pillow. “Good. ‘T’s nice.” Then he draped himself half on top of Xander and sighed with what sounded like satisfaction.

Willow emerged in her nightgown a few minutes later and gave Xander a sappy smile. “You two are cute like that.”

“No, we’re not.”

But she just kept smiling until she’d got into bed and clicked off the light.

 

***

 

“Come on in.”

Amelia was a tall, thin woman with a pointy, pink nose and gray hair in an untidy bun. She looked nervously up and down the street, as if she were afraid someone might spot her visitors, then ushered them brusquely inside. Her house was a neat little bungalow in the Chicago suburbs. They followed her through a small living room and a kitchen with checked black and white tile, and out onto a screened sun porch, where she motioned them to sit. Spike’s eyes were very wide and he was attached to Xander’s arm like a leech. The two of them sat next to each other on a wicker loveseat with a floral cushion, and Willow sat in the chair next to them.

“I’ll be right back,” Amelia said and went back to the kitchen.

“Are you all right?” Xander asked Spike. During the drive, Spike had mostly scrunched down against Xander in the back seat, occasionally lifting his head to peek quickly through the windows. At least he hadn’t wet himself. Now he nodded and stared out into Amelia’s huge back garden.

“You can go walk around if you want. Willow and I will be right here.”

Spike shook his head and looked down at his bare feet.

Amelia came back in with a tray containing tiny, frilly-looking cookies and a pitcher of iced tea. She poured each of them a glassful and watched as Xander helped Spike drink. “He wasn’t like this before?” Amelia asked. Her voice was high and thin.

“No, he wasn’t,” Xander replied tightly.

Willow shot Xander a look. “Thank you for being willing to help us, Amelia,” she said. “We really appreciate it.”

“Yes. Well, it is an interesting problem isn’t it? Something the ladies and I will be talking about for some time, I think. But it’s going to require some preparation.”

“I know. We need a good translation.”

“And some of the ingredients! Do you know how difficult it is to find moon-gathered seaweed in Illinois? Not to mention orris root in the quantities we’ll be needing.”

Willow took a sip of her tea, then smiled. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

Amelia nodded and sniffed, then dabbed at her nose with a hanky she seemed to produce from thin air. “I’m not certain where to put you. I haven’t the space for you all here, and—”

“Oh, we can stay in a hotel,” Willow said. “No problem.”

“It would be best if you stayed somewhere more convenient than the city.”

Willow nodded. “I’m not sure Spike would be very comfortable at the Palmer House anyway. Is there a hotel here?”

“No. But Louise Endicott—you’ll remember her from the coven, dear; she’s the one who’s hard of hearing and is always asking people to repeat things—she has a vacant cottage on her property. It was once a caretaker’s house, when her house was part of a much larger estate. It’s only a mile from here and I believe we could prevail on her to let you use it.”

“That would be great.”

Willow and Amelia talked shop while Xander and Spike drank their tea and ate their cookies. Spike seemed to really like the cookies. Xander wasn’t sure if it was because they were sweet or because of their texture. He had always liked crumbly, crunchy things, even as a vampire.

Eventually Amelia left to go telephone Mrs. Endicott. Willow stood and looked outside. “I have a garden in England. Did I tell you that? I mean, it’s really the coven’s garden, and we grow a lot of our ingredients there, but we have some flowers, too, and culinary herbs, and we’d been planning a hedge maze. Maybe they have that planted by now.”

“Homesick, Will?”

She nodded.

Not too much later, they got in the car again and, having been given directions from Amelia, drove to Mrs. Endicott’s house. She was big and bosomy, and she spoke at a near-shout that scared Spike. But after a few seconds of staring openly at Spike and Xander, she seemed thrilled to have them there, and she led them to a little building behind her rambling house.

“It’s not very fancy, but it’s comfortable,” she yelled. “My housekeeper has left you some linens, and there are pots and pans and things in the kitchenette, but let me know if you need anything else. And feel free to use the grounds, such as they are. Someone ought to use them—with my rheumatism, I rarely do anymore.”

They thanked her—twice, more loudly the second time—and took a quick look around. The little house had a single bedroom with an oversized bed, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs and a bookshelf, and, as Mrs. Endicott had indicated, a small kitchenette. There was also a tiny bathroom with a toilet and sink and shower, but no tub. Willow announced that she’d sleep on the couch and then left the men so she could go back and consult with Amelia.

Xander and Spike waited.

Xander began to fear that he might spend centuries waiting, just hanging around uselessly and longing for anachronisms. At least right now he wasn’t worried about what was happening to Spike. He always knew exactly what was happening to Spike because Spike never left his side, not for half a minute. He never strayed farther away than arm's reach.

Over the next week, Willow spent most of her time with the coven. Xander fed Spike—he was pleased to see that Spike was no longer quite as cadaverous-looking—and kept him clean, and he read to him, too, because Spike seemed to like it and it was something to do. After a few days, Xander was able to get Spike to venture outside without Spike having a nervous breakdown. They would stroll slowly through the short grass on Mrs. Endicott’s lawn. They never went far because it hurt Spike to walk, but at least it was sunshine and fresh air, and after a while they’d sit on the ground and watch the clouds roll by. Spike even got a little bit of sunburn. They never saw Mrs. Endicott, and her gardener got used to seeing them and would wave and then ignore them.

Spike smiled sometimes. Not a lot; just a shadow of his old smirks and grins. But sometimes Xander would feed him something especially tasty, or rub the new stubble on Spike’s head just right, or maybe a butterfly would land on Xander’s knee, and Spike’s lips would quirk up just a little and for a split second he’d remind Xander of the old Spike. The beautiful one.

One week after they left Peoria, Xander and Spike were outside the cottage, lying on the grass. It was a miserably hot day and Xander felt like he was at the bottom of a hot tub; every breath felt soupy and labored. Even the smallest movements felt impossible. But even though their skin was hot and sticky, Spike was touching him, pressing his upper arm against Xander’s. Xander felt like the world’s strangest Siamese twin.

Xander felt Spike shift beside him. He pried open his eyelid and squinted up. Spike was propped up on one elbow, staring gravely at him.

“What?” Xander said.

“Xander.”

“That’s me.”

“You’re…real. Not a trick.” Desperate hope was written all across his face.

Xander sat up. “It’s not a trick, Spike. I’m real.”

Spike sat, too. He filled his lungs deeply with oxygen once, then emptied them. “You…you came for me?”

“I did. Willow and I both did. Angel sent us.”

Spike’s face crumpled and he hid his face in his hands and rocked back and forth. A little awkwardly, Xander put his arm around Spike’s shoulders and held him close.

“’M broken,” Spike whispered.

“Then we’ll fix you.” Spike looked up at him and then threw his arms around Xander’s neck and sobbed. Xander’s heart shattered. His vision blurred as his eye, too, swam with tears.

 

***

 

“You’re gonna like this!”

Willow had bounced into the cottage like Tigger, startling Xander and Spike, who were eating hamburgers. She was waving a newspaper in her hand. She danced around the tiny room.

“What?” Xander demanded.

“Tara and Anya—I mean Mrs. Hull and Mrs. Carlson—they came through for us. And how! The _Tribune_ picked up the story for the front page. Mrs. Carlson must still have a contact or two in the biz.”

“Well, stop doing the funky chicken and let me see!”

She hopped over and plopped the paper down onto the table, splattering a little ketchup as she did. The headline read: APPALLING CONDITIONS AT STATE HOSPITAL. The subhead went on: Hospital Director Charged with Multiple Counts; Attorney General to Conduct Thorough Investigation.

He skimmed quickly over the article, his smile growing bigger as he did. Giles was in jail and facing some really serious time. The AMA had denounced him and the Illinois Division of Professional Regulation had suspended his medical license. Several of the facility’s employees had been jailed as well. There were photos of Giles and Reynolds and Dunham, which Xander carefully shielded from Spike’s view. They were being led away in handcuffs and they looked very unhappy. Even better, Giles’s nose was obviously broken and his eyes were still all puffy and black. The inspectors and the press had already been through the asylum. There were also carefully censored photos of patients in the dayrooms and lurid descriptions of the conditions inside. It was hard to tell in grainy black and white, but Xander thought one of the patients looked an awful lot like Oz. The article also said that two local women, Mrs. Thelma Hull and Mrs. Anna Carlson, had formed a committee to oversee the welfare of the patients and were promising to ensure that they were treated humanely.

“Your letter to the landladies did the trick,” Willow crowed when Xander looked up at her.

“The old broads sure did come through for us.” He chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for, uh, you-know-who. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of those ladies.”

Spike had been watching the entire interchange in puzzlement. “Xander? ‘T’s good?”

“It’s very good, sweetheart.” The endearment just slipped out. Spike didn’t seem to notice. Hopefully if their plan worked out he wouldn’t remember that part. “No more white men. No more Doctor. They’re all gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone for good.”

Spike really did smile that time.

 

***

 

The spell was a little anticlimactic, really. “The work was all in the prep, Xander,” Willow said when Xander didn’t seem appropriately awed. She held a crystal. It was a pretty crystal, with colored sparkly lights that fascinated Spike. It was about the size of a softball but not perfectly round.

 The night sky was like an endless, dark pool. Thirteen ladies, most of them middle-aged or older, were sitting on the grass of Mrs. Endicott’s back lawn in a circle. Some of them had had considerable difficulty getting into that position, and Xander was fairly certain that it was going to take a lot of magic to get them back out. Xander, Willow, and Spike were in the center of the circle. Spike was naked. The ladies had gasped at his condition and Spike had cowered against Xander, not because he was embarrassed by his nudity but because he was overwhelmed by all these strangers around them. But now the witches had recovered and Spike was slightly less frightened by them. He still had his body pressed as close to Xander’s as he could, and Xander had the idea Spike would have just climbed into his lap if Xander hadn’t been holding him in place with one arm.

Xander and Willow and the witches were, mercifully, clothed. Willow had said only Spike had to be in his birthday suit; it had something to do with the reconstitution spell. All the women, Willow included, were chanting something. Xander could feel the power of it raising the hairs on the back of his neck like an electrical charge, and there was something expectant in the way the breeze rustled through the treetops.

As the low singing echoed around them, Xander put his mouth close to Spike’s ear. “We’re going home now,” he whispered.

Spike looked at him with shining eyes. Trusting eyes. “In a car?”

“No. Magic. Spike….” He’d been struggling with how to say this in a way Spike might understand, because it didn’t seem right to open him to enormous risks without even a warning. He licked his lips. “This is dangerous. The magic might not work. It might…might hurt you. Do you want to try it anyway?”

Spike didn’t get it. Xander hadn’t expected him to. “I want…want home,” Spike said.

Xander nodded. “Okay. We’ll go home.”

Spike sighed and slumped a little more against him.

This might destroy Spike. Hell, It might destroy Xander, if Spike reverted to his soulless self and decided to chow down on the nearest snack when they got back. Willow had insisted that Xander stuff a stake into his back pants pocket, but even if he was able to draw it in time to defend himself, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make himself use it on the man he’d been attached to for almost two weeks. Even if the man was not a man any longer.

Xander knew that if the magic worked and Spike was restored, Spike’s connection to him would disappear. Unexpectedly, Xander realized that that was going to tear him apart a little. He also knew that whatever his form, Spike had always craved affection from others. Xander couldn’t let Spike face this danger and potential oblivion without knowing that someone cared about him. So, partly for Spike’s sake and partly for his own, Xander did something foolhardy: He used his free hand to tilt Spike’s face toward him, he leaned his own face in very close, and he touched his lips gently to Spike’s.

Xander thought he heard the chanting falter just a bit, but he didn’t care. Spike didn’t move away. He made a tiny, sort of keening noise and began to cry, but he didn’t move away. Instead he touched his forehead to Xander’s and kept it there, breathing raggedly.

Neither of them changed position as Willow placed the crystal in one of Spike’s hands. “Make sure you stay in contact,” she said quietly, and Xander tightened his grip on Spike. Then Willow placed one hand on a shoulder of each of them. “Reverto!” she called.

 

***

 

He didn’t puke this time. He felt like he was going to, but he just barely managed to keep it down.

They were in a grape field again—the same one where they’d arrived. Well, not quite the same. Now there was a row of power lines across the road, and the road was paved. The little stucco house was still there, but beside it was a larger, wood-framed one, and that one had a shiny red Toyota Tacoma in the driveway.

But Xander wasn’t there to admire the scenery. He immediately and frantically began to search for Spike. He saw Willow first, leaning slightly woozily against a grapevine. He didn’t see Spike at all and he began to panic, until he saw the body four rows over. As fast as Xander’s wobbly legs would allow, he made his way to Spike’s side.

Spike was, of course, naked. He was also whole again: his uncut cock nestled atop a pair of normal balls, the dents in his head gone. He was once again slim but tightly muscled. Even his hair was back to its usual bleached and gelled glory.

He was also a corpse. His skin was very pale and his chest was unmoving. Xander kept a few feet away. “Spike?” he said. There was no response.

Willow made her way to Xander’s side. “Can you tell whether he still has a soul?” Xander asked.

“No, sorry. The magic tank’s on zero now.”

“But you did it. You got us all back and he’s rebuilt.”

“Xan, after what’s happened to him…I don’t know what his psychological state is going to be like if—_when_ he wakes up.”

Xander nodded. He knew what she said was true, but he figured they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Now they had a few more immediate needs. “Let’s get some clothes on him and find a safe place before the sun rises. We didn’t do all this just to watch him burst into flames, I don’t think. Town can’t be that far away. If we can get a motel room or something, we can give Angel a call, too.” He’d been refusing for some time to speculate on what had happened to Angel while they were gone.

“Okay,” Willow said. She pulled a small bundle of clothing from her bag and handed it to Xander. “You vamp-sit. I’ll find us a ride.”

  
[Chapter Fifteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/172576.html)

 

  
  



	15. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 15/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

**Posting early today because I'm in transit and won't be home until late. :-)**

_   
**Madhouse (15 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ck7xy/)  
  
---  
  
**Fifteen**

 

He had been aware for ages, but in the beginning only vaguely so, as the pieces of his mind fell slowly back into place like a puzzle. And then, even when he was more or less put back together, he hadn’t wanted to move, hadn’t wanted to let them know he was awake, because that would break the spell.

He was sodding Sleeping Beauty.

He knew Xander worried about him. The man fussed over him, slowly dripping blood he’d obtained Christ-knew-where into Spike’s mouth; combing Spike’s hair; running warm, damp cloths over Spike’s face and neck. And Xander spoke to him, a constant running babble of commentary on whatever was on the telly or stories from his adventures around the globe. Xander touched him as well, nearly all the time. Just held Spike’s hand or rubbed at his scalp or sat beside him on the bed, leg up against Spike’s arm. Spike drank it all in gratefully. Before Xander, nobody had fussed over him since he was a small boy, and it was lovely. When Xander had pulled him out of the asylum, Spike had needed constant care and reassurance. Now he simply wanted it.

But he also knew it wouldn’t last. Xander was a white hat and he’d risk his life for even the likes of Spike if need be. But when he realized his generosity was no longer necessary, he’d move on. He certainly wouldn’t continue to care about a perfectly able vampire.

The thing was, Spike was going to be devastated. It was the bleeding rescue that had done it, he expected, or perhaps the tender way that Xander had nursed him. Comforted him. It was a bloody twist on Florence Nightingale syndrome—and Spike’s dead, foolish heart was to blame—but Spike had fallen for the boy and he couldn’t imagine going on without him.

But Spike couldn’t lie there forever. He had so many questions. Where had they been? Who had sent him there and why? And, most importantly, what had happened to Angel? Xander had mentioned once that Angel had sent him, but Spike had been far too debilitated at the time to pursue it.

Willow had gone on some errands and Spike was just getting up the courage to open his eyes and begin asking when a knock sounded on the door. Xander rose from the bed to answer it, and Christ, it was the devil himself, Spike’s grandsire, in the flesh.

In the _human_ flesh. Spike heard Angel’s heartbeat from across the room.

But even as he was absorbing that bit of information, he heard Angel and Xander move close together, and he pried open one eyelid just a bit to see them embracing one another tightly, murmuring against each other’s skin. Kissing.

Spike, who was so newly mended, fell apart again. Oh, he did it quietly, and neither of the men noticed. But he felt an actual physical pain in his chest, as if his heart had been ripped out. Not only would he soon lose Xander, but he’d already lost Angel as well. He hadn’t any idea of how those two had come together, but he knew the two humans would never want a demon now. And suddenly he understood why Xander had come for him, why Xander had looked after him so carefully—it was all a favor for Xander’s lover.

Spike’s eyes were closed again when Angel and Xander approached the bed. Angel knelt on the floor beside it and just barely stroked Spike’s face with his fingertips. “Oh, William,” he said with a hint of his old brogue. He always called Spike by his original name in moments of extreme fury or of tenderness. “What’s happened to you, my boy?” He took Spike’s hand in both his great mitts and kissed the knuckles. His lips were so warm, so alive.

After a few minutes, Angel stood again. “Tell me,” he said to Xander.

“I already told you the basics on the phone. You tell _me_ what’s been going on with you. What’s up with Wolfram &amp; Hart?”

They stepped away from the bed, and even though they only went as far as the table and chairs in one corner of the room, Spike felt abandoned. He told himself to stop being such a sod. It didn’t help.

Angel said, “I might as well tell you up front, Xander. Your house is gone. They took possession just a few weeks after you left.”

Xander made a small, pained noise, then sighed. “Yeah. I figured as much. But they haven’t caught up with you?”

“They’ve come close. They’re always close. I think they’re just playing with me. But I’ve caught glimpses of them, too, while I’ve moved around, and I’ve been able to hurt them now and then. A few days ago I killed a Ptrioch demon who was a major client, a gal with really deep pockets. She also had an entire small town in Arkansas enslaved, but obviously Wolfram &amp; Hart doesn’t care about that.”

“God, we were gone so long. I kept picturing you fighting all by yourself….”

“It’s what I do, Xander.”

“You don’t have to be by yourself. I mean, I don’t know the situation with you and Spike, but…but I wouldn’t mind fighting at your side.”

Angel was silent a moment. “I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

“Yeah. Well, apparently, I do. I only had a sabbatical, I guess.”

“You’ll get killed. Everybody does. Wes and Fred and Charles and Doyle and Cordy…. All dead because of me.”

 “Let’s face it. It’s pretty much a miracle I’m still alive as it is. My luck can’t hold out forever. One way or the other, I’m gonna die. I’d rather do it fighting for something worthwhile than, I don’t know. Get in a car wreck, or have cancer eat me, or keel over from a heart attack.” Xander laughed. “Almost everyone I know has died at least once. I feel left out.”

There was another long pause. Finally, Angel said, “What about Spike?”

If Spike had been breathing, he would have stopped.

“I’ll take care of him until he’s recovered. After that it’s up to him, I guess.”

“You don’t have to take care of him anymore. I asked you to find him and you did. You went way beyond the call of duty already.”

Quietly, Xander said, “I like to finish a job once I start it.”

Spike fought desperately not to cry. He’d bloody cried enough already, and he didn’t want them to see. He would just lie on the bed, still as any corpse, and listen to beloved voices as long as he could.

Xander began to tell Angel in detail what had happened. Quite a bit of it was news to Spike and he listened carefully. Willow interrupted the tale when she returned, and she and Angel greeted one another. Xander ordered from room service and they spoke some more as they ate. Spike could smell their dinners, of course, and he mourned his all-too-brief period of eating and enjoying real food. Nothing tasted as good when you were a vampire. Well, nothing except blood, of course.

He was satisfied, though, when Xander and Willow explained how they’d engineered the arrests of Giles and those orderlies, and how the asylum was to be run more kindly. He wondered about Sam and Daniel and Talbot and Robby. Were they all right? Were they happy?

Eventually Willow started yawning and announced that she was heading to the adjoining room to sleep. Xander promised that he’d help her call the rest of the Scoobies the next day to let them know where she’d been. That was interesting, Spike thought. It likely meant Buffy knew none of what had happened, at least not yet.

When she’d gone, there was awkwardness between Xander and Angel. “I…I guess I’ll go see if they have another room for me,” Angel said.

“No you won’t. Stay here,” said Xander.

“But—”

“It’s a king-sized bed. We’ll fit.”

“But Spike—”

“You’ve shared a bed with him before. And he’s in no shape to complain. Come on.”

In the end, Angel stopped playing coy. He wasn’t any good at it anyway. He and Xander performed night-time ablutions—and wasn’t it strange to hear Angel pissing and brushing his teeth!—and climbed into bed, with Xander next to Spike and Angel on Xander’s other side. Spike was relieved to be touching Xander again, for what was likely the final time.

Xander was wearing boxers, as he always was when he slept beside Spike. The thin cotton fabric brushed against Spike’s bare hip. For a while there was silence in the room save for the two men breathing, but then there came the slight, furtive rustle of the sheets, and Spike heard both of their heartbeats speed up.

“Xander,” whispered Angel. “God, Xander, I missed you.”

Xander groaned softly. “Don’t. I can’t…. I missed you, too. Don’t.”

“You’re the one who wanted me in your bed.”

“I know. I want…I want _you_. But Spike—”

“Spike’s comatose. Besides, if he were conscious he’d be perfectly happy to watch. He used to watch me and Dru, or me and Darla, when he thought I didn’t know. Or there were other times…well, an audience isn’t a problem.”

That was true enough, Spike thought. Although he might have added that Angelus got off on it as much as he did.

Evidently, Angel’s words were persuasive enough. Xander rolled onto his side facing Angel, so now it was his back and arse that just barely touched Spike. Angel and Xander began to nuzzle each other, to move against each other, to moan and sigh.

It was bloody torture. Spike couldn’t see them—even if he’d opened his eyes, they were mostly under the blankets. But he could certainly hear them and feel them; he could bloody _smell_ them, their arousal as thick and sweet as perfume. He’d had six years of deprivation. True, once Giles had castrated him he hadn’t much interest in sex anyhow, certainly not the rapes and other abuse he had experienced. But now he was whole again and his libido had been restored with the rest of him, and here were the two men he yearned for, shagging right next to him, and he couldn’t even wank. He just hoped they’d both remain too busy to notice the way Spike’s cock was tenting the sheets.

After an eternity, Xander gasped and Angel cried out against Xander’s shoulder, and Spike smelled the slightly bleachy scent of semen. Xander and Angel remained together for several minutes, petting and kissing. Then Xander rolled over again and Angel spooned against his backside and within a very short time, both of them were snoring.

Spike considered wanking after all, but he was afraid the movement would wake them. He bit his lip and silently bemoaned his fate. He was left hard and aching and wide awake.

 

***

 

It was worse when they woke up, because then it was daytime and if he cracked an eyelid open he could see a bit of light stealing around the edge of the curtains. And he knew those curtains were drawn because of him. He was keeping them out of the sunshine they deserved. Xander and Angel kissed one another lazily for a time before they got out of bed. They were both nude—Xander had managed to shed his boxers during the previous night’s groping—and erect and beautiful. Angel was tanned, and it was a look that suited him.

The men came over and stood at his bedside. Xander smoothed an imaginary lock of hair away from Spike’s face, while Angel stroked Spike’s upper arm. Spike wanted to press into their hands, but he didn’t want to be touched out of pity.

 “How long does Willow think he’ll be…like this?” Angel asked.

“She doesn’t know. She’s never done anything like this before. She’s pretty sure _nobody_ had done this before. She’s planning on writing about it in her blog.”

“God, he always looks so young when he’s asleep. Innocent.”

Spike had to work hard at suppressing a snort. But then he was shocked by Xander’s next comment: “He’s beautiful.”

Angel laughed softly. “You should have seen him when he was just turned. He was so ridiculous, this frightened little fledge, all strutting around with his newborn powers. And he still held on to this Victorian sensibility, but he _wanted_ so badly. I—uh, Angelus had such fun tormenting him, seducing him…. He was a virgin when he died, you know.”

That was enough. Spike pried his eyes open. In a hoarse and gravelly voice, he said, “Better a virgin poet than a drunken, skirt-chasing pillock, Liam.”

Both men gasped and stumbled a step or two backwards. “You’re awake!” Xander said.

Spike tried out his smirk. It was rusty but serviceable. “And people say you’re not very bright, Xa—Harris. ‘Course, you make up for it with your other charms.” He turned his smirk into a leer, and Xander turned bright red and crossed his hands in front of his crotch. He’d apparently forgotten until that moment that he was nude.

“Spike, stop being such a jerk,” Angel said. “Xander saved your ass, remember?” He frowned. “Or maybe you don’t remember.”

Spike sighed. “I remember. Cheers, Harris. I…well, ta.”

Xander nodded at him. “Are you okay? I mean, how do you feel?”

Spike struggled up into a sitting position. Xander stopped covering himself and moved forward as if he might help, but then stopped and let his hands fall to his sides. “’M all right,” Spike said. “Hungry. A bit weak. I’ll mend soon enough, I expect.”

“Let me…. I’ll get you some breakfast,” Xander said. He tugged on his discarded boxers and a pair of trousers, then walked to the mini-fridge and pulled out a plastic packet. He ripped it open and poured it into a black mug, then brought the mug over.

“Where’d you get this?” Spike asked, taking the mug from Xander’s hand. He took a long sip. It was cold, of course, but still delicious.

“Willow got it at the hospital. She used the same distraction glamour she gave me when we left the…when we left.”

“Was wondering why nobody stopped us. Wondering after the fact, I mean. I was too buggered-up to wonder anything then.”

“But your brain now?”

 “As good as new.”

“That’s not saying much,” Angel mumbled, and Spike was gratified to see that Xander gave him a dirty look.

“Look,” Xander said. “How about if some of us get some clothing on and we invite Willow to the party? She’s gonna be happy to see you compos mentis-ish.”

So Angel got dressed and Xander put on a shirt. Xander brought Spike some clothing that did not come from the 1930s—a pair of black jeans and a black tee—which meant he or Red must have bought them after they’d returned. Spike swallowed past the lump in his throat and, with only a bit of difficulty, managed to dress himself for the first time in over six years.

Xander rang Willow’s room, and Spike could hear her squeal right through the wall. A moment later she was rushing into their room and enveloping Spike in warm, sweet-scented softness. He hadn’t been embraced by a woman in a long time—it was lovely. “Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked, inspecting him at arm's length.

“Yeah, love. Thanks to your mojo.” With his stomach full, he was feeling loads better. Still not even to full human strength, but getting there.

“I’m so glad. You’re not upset that we had to, uh, kill you?”

He had to consider this a moment, then he shook his head. “Nah. I wouldn’t want to go on like…like that.” His voice broke a bit and he cleared his throat. “Besides, I missed my demon. We’ve been together much longer than I ever lived without it. Wasn’t as bad as being gelded, but I still felt like I was missing something.”

She smiled at him. “I need to make some calls. I wasn’t exactly forthcoming about where I was headed, and I’m guessing I owe some people an explanation.”

“Better you than me,” Xander muttered.

Willow ignored him and looked at Spike. “Spike, none of them know…well, as far as they know, you’re ashes in the former Sunnydale. Is it okay…I mean, it’s gonna be kinda hard to tell the story without telling them you’re alive. Or dead. Again.”

Spike shrugged. “I reckon the Slayer will need to be filled in. She’s—what?—four resurrections behind in my story.”

“Thank you. But…they don’t need to know all the details either. I’ll just tell them the truth—you went through a lot but you were strong and brave.”

Spike knew that neither of those adjectives were anywhere in the vicinity of the truth, but he appreciated the effort, and he nodded dumbly at her. A few seconds later, she’d sprinted back to her own room.

The atmosphere was awkward around the three who remained. Spike was still sitting on the edge of the bed, while Xander and Angel were avoiding his eyes. Finally, Xander asked, “Is there anything you want, Spike?”

Spike wanted loads of things, but none worth humiliating himself by telling these two men. He rubbed at his forehead, which was reassuringly unmarred. “I’d fancy some answers, I reckon. Where in bloody hell was I and why, and who put me there? What happened in the battle with Evil Inc.? Why and how is the pouf human? Where are we? And how the bloody hell did you two end up shagging each other?”

Angel and Xander looked guiltily at one another after the last question, but at least they didn’t try to deny it.

“We don’t know all of that ourselves, actually,” Angel said. “But we can fill you in on what we do know.”

Spike twisted around and leaned back against the pillows. “So? Tell.”

They did. It was a long story, and by the end Spike had said little, but an entire symphony of emotions had played through him during the telling. Grief for those who’d died. Relief that Angel’s little holiday in another world had been more pleasant than his own. Confusion—which the others shared—over who had sent them away and why. Rage over Wolfram &amp; Hart’s dragging Xander into the fray. As for what he felt when he realized that, despite the brief time Angel and Xander had spent together, there was something meaningful between them, well, there were no words for that jumble of sentiments.

When Angel and Xander were finished at last, Spike tilted his head. “So you’ve no idea who zapped us?”

Angel shrugged. “It could’ve been the firm, trying to get us out of the way without actually dusting us. Just in case one of us was going to fulfill that prophecy.”

“Stupid bloody prophecies,” Spike growled.

“Or it could have been the Powers That Be. Saving us, I guess. Or maybe we were just in somebody’s magical blast zone. When I went back to the alley later, after I’d returned here, well, there was no sign of anything at all. But there were a lot of police reports that night of a loud noise, sort of a sonic boom.”

Spike mulled this over a moment. “Do you reckon we were meant to end up where we did? I mean, did someone fancy you becoming frontier boy, and me….” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I don’t know. And I don’t know how we got to be human, either, and whether that was intentional or some kind of side effect.”

Spike ran his fingers through his hair. He was happy to have hair again, to have dominion over his own body once more. “What do you mean to do now?”

“What I have been. Doing whatever I can to fight them.”

“You’re human now. Vulnerable. They’ll kill you.”

Xander said, “I’m going to help.”

“They’ll kill you as well, berk,” said Spike. “If you had any idea what they were like—”

“I’d do it anyway. I’ve never much hesitated with the suicidal windmill-tilting, have I?”

Spike leaned forward. “But you had the others at your side—the Slayer, the witch, your demon girl with a thousand years of experience behind her, even the bloody Watcher. Not just…an idiot ex-vamp who’s hung up his fangs for good.”

Angel looked as if he were going to protest, but Xander jumped in first. “I can hold my own better than you think! I spent years all over the world collecting baby Slayers, and I was by myself the whole time. Lost a couple minor body parts,” he held up his mangled hand, which Spike had been wondering about, “but I made it. And maybe I didn’t run into any Big Bads, but there were definitely some Medium Bads. I’m not just a fucking donut boy, not anymore!”

_I know_, Spike said to himself. But not out loud.

Xander shook his head angrily. “Anyway, what do you care what I do? Plenty of times you would’ve been first in line to take a swing at me. Plenty of times you _were_.”

Spike badly wanted to tell Xander that he cared, very much. That he couldn’t imagine going on without Xander within easy reach. That there were holes in his soul Xander’s shape and Angel’s, and Spike could never hope to fill them. But he couldn’t bear rejection. Not again, not from these two. So all he did was cross his arms. “Suit yourself.”

Xander’s anger deflated and he slumped in his chair. In a much quieter voice, he said, “You seem to be doing pretty well. But you’ve had a tough time of it, and as long as you want help, I won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re offering to be my minder?”

“I guess so. I don’t know if vampires get PTSD, but it all has to be a pretty major shock—”

“Ever the white knight.” Spike meant it, even if his tone was sarcastic.

Xander sighed. “Whatever, Spike.”

Angel said nothing, his pretty mouth a thin line as he glared at the floor.

Xander picked up the little tent-shaped card that was on top of the low chest of drawers—the card was an advert for pay-per-view adult films, Spike noted with some amusement—and began to toy with it, turning it over and over in his hands. Spike waited for his next words, the announcement that Xander and Angel would be leaving shortly. But very softly, Xander said, “You could join us. Help us fight. If you wanted to.”

Spike felt a stupid flash of warmth in his chest, and the flash repeated when Angel looked up and nodded at him.

Spike pretended to think it over, as Xander continued to fidget and Angel kept his face free of all expression. Finally, Spike said, “All right. I expect you could use some real strength on your side. And brains as well.”

To his delight, both men broke into smiles. “We’ll have to keep looking for the brains, I guess,” Angel said. “But it won’t hurt to have another pair of hands.”

  
[Chapter Sixteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/173113.html)

 

  
  



	16. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 16/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

  


_   
**Madhouse (16 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cpqdg/)  
  
---  
  
**Sixteen**

 

It was tough saying goodbye to Willow. Xander realized that living with her all these months had been like a return to the old days when they were kids and he’d spent more time at her place than at his own house, when he’d known her better than he knew anyone else on earth. But she had a home of her own to return to in England, and a coven, and a life that didn’t include Wolfram &amp; Hart.

That left the three of them, and an uncomfortable three it was. Spike stalked around, pretending he wasn’t hurting, but his face and body were so expressive that they gave him away. Xander wished that Spike would admit he was still traumatized from his experiences. A small part—no, a large, selfish part—of Xander wished Spike would still cling to him for comfort. Yeah. Like William the Bloody needed Xander Harris for reassurance.

The sleeping arrangements were awkward, with three of them and only the one bed. But a few hours after Willow had gone, as soon as the sun had set, Spike demanded Xander’s shoes. “But…they’re my shoes,” Xander said.

“Yeah? The pouf’s are too big and I don’t fancy going barefoot, so hand them over.”

Xander did, and Spike shoved them on and grabbed Angel’s coat, which was also too big, and scowled at them. “Don’t wait up, kiddies,” he said, and stomped out the door.

As soon as he was gone, Angel and Xander both sat heavily on the bed. “Jesus Christ,” Angel said, rubbing his temples.

Xander took a deep breath. “Look, this thing with you and me…I’m not even sure it’s a thing, really, although it has a certain thinginess to it. But you and Spike, that predates you and me by over a century, so if you want, um….”

“No,” Angel said. “You saw what he’s like. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. Anyway, you and me, that’s real. I know real when I find it. Usually, I lose it. I don’t want that to happen this time.”

Xander tried not to sigh in relief. “Okay. So relationship talks are a lot easier when half of the team is female, I gotta tell you that. Not any more fun, just easier.”

Angel nodded in agreement. Then he said, “So while we’re having this talk anyway…if you and Spike are…whatever…don’t let me—”

“We aren’t. I was there when he needed someone. Now he probably doesn’t even like to think about it.”

Angel gave Xander a long look. “But how do you feel about him?”

Xander opened his mouth intending to deny everything, but that’s not what came out. “I’ve had the hots for him since high school. I just spent a few weeks in very close contact with him. I have a thing for demony types anyway. Obviously. I…I don’t even know.”

“But you do care about him.”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “And so do you. This is the most fucked-up triangle ever. Does it even count as a triangle when one angle doesn’t want the other two?”

Angel put one of his big hands on Xander’s shoulder. “Let’s drop it for now, okay? I’m tired. Humans need so much more sleep than demons.”

In truth, Xander was exhausted as well. The last few days had been one long emotional roller-coaster ride, complete with the transdimensional loop. Without saying anything more, the two of them stripped and readied themselves for bed, then climbed between sheets that smelled of them and of Spike. They petted and stroked each other for a while, and then Angel smiled, white teeth gleaming in the dark, and magically produced a small bottle of lube.

“Looks to me like someone was pretty optimistic,” said Xander. “Or maybe you’re just a Boy Scout.”

“They didn’t have Boy Scouts when I was first alive.”

“Well you sure as hell can’t join now. You’re too gay.”

“I’m not gay,” Angel said. “I’m—”

“Flexible. Yeah, I know. Why don’t you show me just how flexible you are?”

And with that ridiculously obvious double-entendre out of the way, they kissed. Sometime later, as Xander pounded deep into Angel’s core, and Angel held his own knees so that he was bent nearly in half, Xander reflected that Angel really was very flexible indeed.

 

***

 

When Xander woke up, Angel was spooned behind him, one arm flung over Xander’s waist and his cock nestled softly against Xander’s ass. That was nice. But then Xander spied Spike, slumped in one chair with his feet propped in another and Angel’s coat draped over him as a blanket. That wasn’t nice at all. Xander wanted Spike in bed with him. With them, really, because when he pictured Angel and Spike together he didn’t feel jealous at all. In fact, he felt…intrigued.

 Xander had participated in a threesome once, in Barcelona. But he’d barely even known the guys’ names—Raul and Pablo, maybe—and they’d all been fairly drunk, and none of them had felt anything for the others except lust. Still, it had been fun.

Xander wondered whether a three-way relationship could actually work. Then he delivered a mental kick to his own ass, because of course no such thing was going to happen.

Spike stirred a little in his sleep, his face folding into a frown. A slight whimper escaped his lips. What gave a vampire nightmares, Xander wondered. His recent mistreatment, or maybe all the times he’d died?

Then Angel moved slightly and Xander felt the soft flesh against his butt grow and harden. Angel mumbled something unintelligible—Xander wasn’t sure it was even English—and nuzzled at the crook of Xander’s neck, then humped lightly against Xander’s body.

“Um, Angel? We’re not alone,” Xander whispered.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Spike said. “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your morning shag.”

Angel had stopped moving as soon as Spike spoke. “What do you want, Spike?”

“Was trying for a bit of a kip—not easy with the two of you snoring like a pair of Sednin demons.”

“I thought you were out stalking the night,” Angel said.

“Yeah, well, it’s past dawn, twat, and some of us find that a mite uncomfortable. Besides, it only took about an hour to see all there was to see in this rat’s tit of a town. What do they call it again? Muckhole?”

“Merced,” Xander said, and sat up, pulling the blankets tightly around his waist.

Spike snorted. “A place with a name like that’s no place for me.”

“It’s just where we happened to land, Spike. We weren’t planning to stay.”

“So where are we going, then?”

Xander looked at Angel. They hadn’t really got that far in their conversations. Angel sat up too, although he didn’t seem to care if the sheets were pulled off the side, exposing a fair amount of hip. “I was in Memphis when you called, but it was about time to move on anyway. I heard some rumors of something going on in Detroit, though. I was planning to head there next.”

“Great,” Xander said. “More Midwest.”

“We can go someplace else if—”

“No, Detroit’s as good as anyplace else, I guess. Let’s go.”

Angel nodded. “We’re gonna need a new car. Something big enough for the three of us, and with a trunk, in case Spike has to hide out during the day.”

“Oi! Not going to stuff me in a bloody boot.”

“Only if it’s an emergency,” Angel said. “You’ve done it before, and it won’t kill you. Again.”

Spike still looked disgruntled, so Xander changed the subject slightly. “We okay for cash? Will and I sold most of the jewelry, but we brought back a few things—some first editions and stuff—that ought to sell for a lot nowadays.”

Angel stood and stretched, looking for a moment like a Greek god. Xander couldn’t tear his eyes away. Angel said, “I’ve got plenty of money. It’s not a problem. You two stay here and I’ll go car shopping.”

“Don’t need a minder,” Spike said.

“I’m not minding anyone,” Xander said. “But I need a shower anyway, and I’d rather go hand to hand with most demons than a car salesman.”

As Angel spent a while in the bathroom getting ready, Xander called room service for some breakfast. “How you doing on blood, Spike? Do we need to find you a source?”

“No. I ate when I was out.” Xander lifted his eyebrows, and Spike rolled his eyes. “It was a sodding cow, all right? They’re everywhere here. I didn’t snack on any of the locals.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

They sat in silence for a while after that. Xander thought Spike might have dozed off again. Angel came out of the bathroom dressed and groomed, grunted at them, and left. Xander stood up then, blushing stupidly over his nudity, and made his way to the shower. He had dressed and was just getting out of the bathroom when his breakfast arrived, so he sat down at the table with his waffles and fruit and coffee and began to eat. Spike watched.

“Want some?” Xander said, pointing at his plate.

“Nah. Wouldn’t taste the same.” Spike sounded a little wistful, Xander thought.

“When I was a little kid—this was when Dad was still the only drunk in the family—Mom used to make me waffles sometimes on weekends. She burned them every single time, but it was still a treat.” He didn’t know where that memory had come from or why he’d suddenly shared it, but he spent a few moments chewing, remembering sitting on the living room floor and licking the syrup from his fingers as he watched Saturday morning cartoons.

Spike interrupted his brief reverie. “You and the pouf are quite the pair of lovebirds.”

Shit. Xander put down his fork and looked at Spike, whose face was unreadable. “We didn’t mean…. He was in love with another Xander, right, and I was lonely, and…. I’m sorry. I never meant to wreck…whatever you two had.”

Spike snorted. “What we had? We fucked, that was all. No rose petals and champagne. I was a toy to him when he was Angelus, and a convenience when we were at the law firm.”

“No. He really cares about you. He told me so himself.”

Another snort, this time with an eyeroll thrown in for good measure. “Yeah, well of course he’s going to say that to the bloke he’s shagging now, isn’t he? He doesn’t want to come off as a cad.”

“He wasn’t trying to decadify himself. Besides, he went to a lot of trouble to try and get you rescued, didn’t he?”

“I expect he felt guilty. He has a bloody black belt in self-flagellation.”

“Maybe he did feel guilty, but he really does—”

“Look, Xan—Harris. Forget about it. You two go on and have your lovely little romance. You have my blessing or whatever it is you wanted, yeah? Now it’s bloody early for me. Let me get some sleep.” He stomped over to the bed, shimmied out of his jeans and t-shirt, and climbed between the sheets. “Smells like a bloody bordello,” he grumbled before he fluffed the pillow under his head and, apparently, went to sleep.

 

***

 

Spike wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and limped over to where Xander was leaning against the wall. “Well, that was a bit of fun. You all right, mate?”

Xander shook his head slightly. “Mostly. Got the wind knocked out of me. That thing hugged tighter than my Aunt Bubbles.”

Spike cocked an eyebrow. “Aunt _Bubbles_?”

“Don’t ask.”

Spike poked gently at Xander’s chest, and Xander hissed when the contact sent an unexpected thrill down his spine. He and Spike had rarely touched over the last six months. Spike looked concerned. “That hurts? The demon might have cracked your ribs. Are your lungs all right? Let me see.” He tugged at Xander’s shirt as if to lift it, but Xander pushed his hand away.

“I’ll live. Let’s go home, okay? Maybe Angel’s back by now.” He began to walk a little unsteadily towards the car. Spike joined him.

“Stupid tosser. He should have been here fighting, too.”

“Yeah, except the whole point of the fight was to distract the demons so he could steal the talisman, remember?”

“Well, I reckon they’re distracted.” Spike looked back at the three lumpy corpses that littered the alley. “So Angel better not have bollocksed things up.”

“You’re in a cheery mood tonight.” Xander slid into the passenger side of the Galaxie. Spike always wanted to drive, and Xander really was kind of sore anyway. It was a gorgeous car, a ‘63½ Fastback with the original 427 engine. The white paint and red vinyl interior were flawless, and the beast ran like a dream. Angel said he’d chosen it because Spike could fit easily in the roomy trunk—although he’d made a crack at the time about Spike being able to fit easily in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. But Xander suspected Angel bought the car because he knew Spike’s fondness for classic cars.

Spike got behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb. “I’d be in a better mood if I thought we were making any headway against those wankers, and if you—erm, if _I_ didn’t keep getting banged up for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. If Angel gets the talisman, the demons can’t control the weather anymore, and then Atlanta will stop having these constant thunderstorms, and then the airport—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. And all will be well in this, the best of all possible worlds.” He slammed his palm into the steering wheel. “We’re not getting anywhere! We move from here to there, we risk our necks, and we’re no more bother to Wolfram &amp; Hart than a few mosquitoes buzzing about the room.”

“Under the right circumstances, mosquitoes can kill, Spike. Besides, it’s the best we can do. You got a better plan? Please, share with the class.”

“I don’t bloody _know_!” Spike hit the defenseless car again. And then, in almost a whisper, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

“Me either. But I tried the retirement gig and that didn’t work out.” Xander patted Spike on the leg in a friendly sort of way, but then his hand decided to linger on the denim.

Spike glanced over at him. “Xan—” his voice sounded oddly choked.

Xander sighed and moved his hand away. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way, but Xander kept sneaking looks at Spike out of the corner of his eye. Xander didn’t like the slump of his shoulders or the way the corners of his mouth were drawn down. He knew Spike was miserable. Sometimes the three of them shared a single motel room—Spike in one bed, Xander and Angel in the other—and Xander would hear Spike calling out in his sleep. More than once Xander had also heard Spike through thin motel walls, sobbing as if his heart was broken. But he responded to any acts of consolation with protests and prickliness, and Xander had just backed away every time. Spike may have needed some comfort, but he didn’t want it from Xander. Or from Angel, for that matter; Angel had made a few clumsy attempts at it himself, only to be similarly rebuffed.

“Home” for the moment was a Holiday Inn near the airport. They had a suite, which was their usual preference. It gave them a little privacy without compromising their security; all three of them felt safer when they stuck close. Besides, Angel and Xander worried about Spike, who drank a lot and got reckless when he did. More than once he’d stumbled in only moments before the sun rose.

Now, though, it was only about midnight, so Spike was able to get from the car into the hotel without igniting. As they rode the elevator to their room, Spike started an argument about which _Star Trek_ series was the best. Xander voted for _Voyager_, while Spike preferred _Deep Space Nine_.

“No way,” Xander said. “Two reasons. First, Quark reminds me of my high school principal.”

Spike smiled wickedly. “I remember him.”

“Yeah. And two: Seven of Nine.”

They were still squabbling when Xander slid the key card into the lock, which was probably why neither of them noticed the voices in their room. But then Xander swung the door open, and there was Angel, standing deep in conversation with someone. Xander couldn’t quite make out who because Angel’s big body was blocking the way.

Angel swung around at the sound of the door opening. He looked pained. And the man behind him stepped slightly to the side.

“Xander,” he said, nodding slightly. “Spike.”

Xander squeaked. “Giles?!”

  
[Chapter Seventeen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/173419.html)

 

 

  
  



	17. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 17/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all)   


  


_   
**Madhouse (17 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ch0zd/)  
  
---  
  
**Seventeen**

 

Spike should have vamped out and torn the man’s throat out, or at the very least just turned tail and run. But he didn’t. Instead, as the door clicked closed behind him, he collapsed to his knees like he’d been shot and he hid his face in his arms and began to rock. “No no no no,” he moaned.

Immediately, two big bodies were crouching beside him, holding him tight in their arms, and his first instinct was to feel caged. But before his panic could ratchet up even more, he recognized their scents and knew it was Angel and Xander surrounding him. Keeping him safe. And wasn’t that bloody hilarious, two humans protecting a vampire?

Xander was talking soothingly in his ear, and Spike was eventually able to focus on the words. “It’s okay, Spike. You’re okay. It’s not him. You’re safe. It’s our Giles, librarian-Watcher Giles. He doesn’t want to hurt you and we wouldn’t let him if he tried, and you’re strong, remember?”

Spike gave a great, shuddering sigh and collapsed against someone’s chest, while someone else rubbed his back.

“I’m sorry,” said Giles, and Spike stiffened again at that voice. “I didn’t intend—”

Xander interrupted, his voice tight. “I know. But could you maybe back off and give us a few?”

“Of course.”

Angel and Xander didn’t hurry Spike along; they just held him and murmured soothing words. He felt so bloody good at being comforted, at being touched after so long. He’d been aching for this for ages, and he knew either of them would have been willing to provide it, but he hadn’t wanted their pity, hadn’t wanted them to see how weak and broken he was.

Eventually Spike felt slightly more put together, if still shaky. He extricated himself from the men’s embraces and slowly rose to his feet. Angel and Xander rose with him, flanking him so closely they were touching him.

“Do you want to lie down?” Xander asked. “You don’t have to. I’ll take you back downstairs if you want, or I’ll take Giles away—”

“No. ‘T’s all right.” Spike took a deep breath and walked all the way into the room. He couldn’t bring himself to actually look at Giles, but he managed to make his way to the sofa and collapsed heavily onto it. Xander sat beside him, and Angel earned his eternal redemption by walking to the chest of drawers, grabbing the bottle of Jack that Spike had left there, and carrying it over. Spike unscrewed the cap and took a long, fiery pull.

Only when the liquid was burning comfortably in his stomach could he bear to look up. Giles was at the opposite end of the room, flattened against the wall. He looked pale and shaken and he was furiously polishing his glasses. This wasn’t the Doctor, Spike could see that now; this Giles was missing that cold glint in his eyes. Still, Spike was glad that Xander was right next to him and that Angel had positioned himself between the sofa and Giles.

The silence had become leaden when Xander finally said, “Why are you here, Giles? Not that I’m unhappy to see you, it’s just…you were kind of a surprise.”

Giles nodded, put his glasses back on, and tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. “I know, and I am sorry. It took me some time to track you down. Willow wasn’t very forthcoming about your location.”

“You could have called, Giles.”

Giles looked down at his feet. “I wasn’t certain you’d speak with me. And in any case, this…this is better in person. At least, I thought it would be. I wasn’t aware of the degree of trauma, erm….” He snuck a glance at Spike, then looked down again.

Spike took another long drink. “Spit it out already, Watcher, before the three of you die of old age.” He was gratified that his voice was nearly steady.

“I came…well, I came to apologize, first.”

“To who for what?” Xander asked.

“To each of you, actually.”

The three of them exchanged looks, but clearly none of them knew what he was on about. “Care to explain?” Xander asked.

“Why don’t I simply do it? Xander, I’d like to apologize for…for using you the way I did. Having you spend all those years collecting Slayers, often under difficult circumstances, without aid…. I shouldn’t have asked it of you. I should have at least sent someone with you.” Xander started to speak, but Giles put up his hand to stop him. “It’s not that you didn’t do a fine job, Xander, because you did. Nobody could have done better and, well, I’m quite proud of you. But I know how hard it was on you personally, and how it kept you from your friends, and…and I am sorry.”

Xander looked like he might cry. He blinked his eye rapidly and then ducked his head. “Thanks, Giles,” he said quietly.

Spike moved a few inches closer to Xander so that their legs were touching. It was bloody lovely to be giving rather than receiving comfort for a change. Xander sniffed and smiled gratefully at him.

Giles still hadn’t moved from the wall. It was as if he’d been pinned there. But now he turned his attention to Spike. “Spike, I’d like to apologize to you as well.”

“You don’t have to, Rupert. Wasn’t you in that world, I know that. You’ve no responsibility for that bastard’s actions.”

Giles surprised him by saying, “No, I haven’t. I don’t even know what he did, really. Willow did not want to share details.”

“What did she say, then?”

“That my counterpart ran an asylum in which you were incarcerated, and that he was a cruel man who caused you physical and emotional harm.”

Spike took a deep breath. So the witch had kept her word not to share the particulars of what had happened. “That’s the gist of it. But as I’ve said, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“I know. What I want to apologize to you about, Spike, is my treatment of you those final months in Sunnydale. Although I still believe I was justified in being somewhat…skeptical…about your trustworthiness, I was wrong. You were a hero. And if you hadn’t believed in Buffy when the rest of us doubted her, if you hadn’t given her your support, well, I’m not certain what the outcome would have been. I am sorry I doubted you, and I am especially sorry about…that business with Robin Wood. You are…you are quite an extraordinary man, Spike.”

Spike became aware that he was gaping at Giles, his mouth hanging open. He closed it. “Ta,” he mumbled.

Giles turned then to look at Angel. “I didn’t trust you, either. Also with good cause, perhaps. But if I had had more faith in you, the Council could have assisted you when you fought Wolfram &amp; Hart. We do have considerable resources available to us, magical and otherwise. Perhaps things would have turned out better. Perhaps Wesley…. Well, I’m sorry.”

It was Angel’s turn to look astonished. “I never expected you to help, Giles. Even the people who were close to me at the time had doubts. Actually, Spike was the first to support me, too.”

_Huh_, Spike thought. _Hadn’t reckoned the old man even noticed_.

Giles said, “I still regret not helping you, Angel. And I do apologize for that.”

After a brief pause, Angel said, “Thank you.”

Giles looked relieved, a burden lifted from his shoulders.

“What’s with the sudden need to apologize?” Xander asked. “Not that it isn’t appreciated or anything. You’re not in a 12-step program, are you?”

Giles laughed. “No. Honestly, some of it has been festering in me for years. And when Willow returned, well, first I was shocked that Spike was still alive, of course. But as she told us what had happened, I re-evaluated some of my previous assumptions and previous actions, and I came to realize how wrong I had been. Given our profession, any of us could die at any time. I expect I wanted to ensure that nothing was left unsaid between us.”

“Oh,” Xander said.

“I had another motive as well,” said Giles. “Erm, Spike, if I may?” He gestured at a chair.

By then Spike had downed almost half the bottle, and between the alcohol and the warmth that was seeping from Xander’s body into his, he felt much better. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Giles peeled himself away from the wall and walked to the chair, then sat down. Angel shrugged slightly and sat on a chair as well, hunched forward, his hands hanging between his knees.

Xander rubbed his eye. “You look kind of beat, Giles. It’s late for us, and Spike and I fought these demons tonight—Oh! Did you get the talisman, Angel?”

“Yes. It’s taken care of.”

“Good. But Spike and I got kind of banged up—”

“Oh, bugger!” said Spike. “Your bloody ribs. Come on, Xander, let me see.” He was angry with himself for having forgotten, and he pulled Xander’s shirt up.

Xander squawked a bit and tried to wriggle away. “I’m fine, Spike, I just—”

“Let me have a look, then!” Xander sighed and stopped moving, and Spike probed gently at Xander’s ribs. “Does this hurt, pet?” Oh, bloody hell. He may have drunk a bit too much too quickly.

But Xander ignored the endearment. “I’m fine. A little sore. I’ve survived worse.”

Spike scowled at the scars on Xander’s stomach. “Your breathing sounds all right. Does it hurt when you move?”

“Just a little. I’m probably gonna have some pretty Technicolor bruises for the next week or so, but that’s all.”

Satisfied that Xander wasn’t seriously injured, Spike let his shirt fall back down. But then Xander began to visually inspect Spike. “How about you? You were limping pretty bad.”

“’T’s nothing. Vamp, remember? I’ll be mended by morning.” Actually, his hip was hurting quite badly, but the others didn’t need to know that.

Giles had been watching this entire interchange very carefully, his head tilted slightly. He cleared his throat. “Erm…if I may? Willow had rather hinted that, well….”

“What, Rupert?” Spike was tired, he realized, and cranky.

“May I ask what, erm, what sort of relationship the three of you have? It’s not necessary that I know, of course, but I was wondering, and….”

Neither Angel nor Spike said anything, but Xander turned a lovely shade of pink. Spike liked it when he blushed—the boy was delicious like that. Xander looked at Angel, who shrugged. “Um, me and Angel, we’re kind of, um….”

“Shagging like bunnies,” Spike interjected helpfully.

Xander spluttered a bit, then sighed. “I love him. And thanks ever so to both of you for forcing the semi-public declaration.”

Angel was ducking his head and smiling, though, that beautiful smile that transformed his face from merely handsome to transcendent. It occurred to Spike that Xander might not have informed Angel himself of his true feelings until just now, although any idiot could have seen it in the way they interacted. Which meant Angel had likely been oblivious.

“I’m very happy to hear that,” Giles said, and actually looked like he meant it. “But Spike?”

“I’m the token demon and official third wheel.”

Xander hit Spike lightly in the shoulder. “Spike’s my friend, Giles.”

Spike realized he was smiling stupidly. When was the last time anyone had called him a friend? It wasn’t quite what he yearned for from Xander and Angel, but it was precious in its own right. “So now that that’s all sorted, Rupert, is there anything else? Perhaps you’d fancy knowing what positions they prefer, or—” Xander hit him again, much harder.

Giles started polishing his glasses again. “Actually, what I’d meant to do is, well, offer my services.”

All three of them said it at once: “Your services?”

“Yes, well, that came out rather wrong in light of the previous discussion, didn’t it?” Giles chuckled. “What I meant was that I’d like to help you fight the law firm. My powers aren’t as strong as Willow’s, of course, but I do possess some skills with magic and I’ve an extensive network of resources.”

Angel stood. “No. No way. Look, I appreciate the offer, but I told Willow already. You get involved in this and you die. Xander’s too goddamn stubborn to listen to me and stay away, and Spike never could keep out of trouble, but you have more sense.”

“Hey!” said Xander at the same time that Spike said, “Oi!”

“Willow told me you would say that. But I think you’ll find that I’m as stubborn as Xander. You can let me help, or I can follow you about and make a nuisance of myself.”

Angel stomped over to Giles’s chair. “Why are you so insistent about this? Are the Watchers boring you?”

“Actually, yes, I suppose they are. Buffy and the other Slayers are running things quite smoothly, and they don’t require much of my assistance at all. I’m…a bit obsolete. But I also have some concerns that Wolfram &amp; Hart will pose an increased danger to the Slayers. The firm hasn’t paid them much attention so far, but there have been a few unpleasant encounters. They’ve attempted to recruit some of the new Slayers to their side as well.”

Angel made that pained face he did when things weren’t going as he’d meant them to and he began to say something, but Xander stood. “I’m wiped. How about if we sleep on this and we can talk about it some more in the morning?”

Giles stood as well. “That’s a good idea.”

“Do you have a room?”

“I do. One floor down. I’ll let you get your sleep, then.” Giles walked to the door and then turned and smiled at all three of them. “Good night, gentlemen.”

“Night, Giles,” Xander said, and then Giles left.

“Well,” said Xander. “That was unexpected.”

Angel said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call and warn you. He got here about three minutes before you did. Are you doing okay, Spike?”

“Yeah. It was…a bit of a shock, is all.” He stood. “Why don’t you two toddle off to bed? But be careful with the boy tonight, Liam.” He began to toss the cushions off the sofa so he could pull out the bed.

But Xander grabbed his arm. “Come on, Spike. You’re not going to sleep on a crappy hide-a-bed mattress when you’re hurt.”

“Neither are you.”

“It’s a king-sized bed, Spike. Plenty of room. Don’t worry—there will be no shagging.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “With you two? Never known a pair of humans with such active libidos.”

Angel grabbed Spike’s other arm. “You can sleep in the middle and guard our chastity. Come on.”

Spike allowed himself to be dragged into the bedroom. While the humans did their disgusting human things in the bathroom, he stripped and climbed into bed. Angel was nude when he emerged, but Xander was wearing a pair of white briefs. Xander looked at the bed, then at Angel, and then shrugged and shucked the underwear as well. The men lay down on either side of him. There were a few moments of shifting about, during which both Angel and Xander managed to position themselves just barely touching Spike. He heard their breathing even out, but he stayed awake and drank in the heat and the contact.

“First time a demon’s played chaperone, I’ll wager,” Spike whispered to himself. He reached his hands out so the fingertips were resting against two solid bodies and sighed. Again, not what he hungered for, but still so very precious.

  
[Chapter Eighteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/173822.html)   


 

  



	18. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 18/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

Thanks to my wonderful, hard-working beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , I'll be posting 2 chapters a day from now on. That way we'll be finished before I go out of town again.

  


_   
**Madhouse (18 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ck7xy/)  
  
---  
  
**Eighteen**

 

“It’s not even a proper city. Too…stretched out. And sunny. New York, London, even bloody Prague…those are proper cities.”

“We’re not going to LA on holiday, Spike,” Giles said.

Spike scowled at the back of Giles’s neck and crossed his arms. Xander didn’t say anything. It had been a long, long drive from Atlanta. Almost 2200 miles. Three nights. They’d figured out pretty quickly that Spike would squabble with Angel or Giles if he sat next to them, so Xander sat next to him instead, and when Xander wasn’t driving, he tried to distract Spike. He’d run out of distractions somewhere between Albuquerque and Flagstaff. Now he mostly stared out the window and pretended he was half-deaf instead of half-blind.

He understood why Spike was so grouchy—Xander wouldn’t have been thrilled either to be returning to the location where he’d been zapped away to a thoroughly miserable existence. But that understanding didn’t make Spike a better travel companion. The only good part of the entire enterprise was that Spike refused to share a room with Giles—again, he could hardly be blamed—and Angel refused to spring for three rooms, so Spike had continued to room with them. And then he’d insisted on keeping his place in the center of their bed, so they wouldn’t disturb his sleep with shagging, he said. Xander and Angel missed the shagging but they’d both enjoyed having Spike join them, even if on a platonic basis.

“I know why we’re going there, Watcher. ‘M just saying. Angel shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

Angel knew better than to take the bait, but Xander suspected that his hands probably tightened a little more on the steering wheel. Giles decided to withdraw from the fray, too. He poked at his iPhone, ostensibly researching, but sometimes Xander suspected he was playing Farmville.

Spike kicked gently at Xander’s leg. “We won’t be so far from your old homestead. Do you fancy a visit?”

“Sunnydale? No thanks. It’s just a big hole full of mostly unhappy memories.”

“Did those wankers of parents of yours make it out?”

Xander made a face. “Yeah.”

“Wish they hadn’t?”

“I don’t know, Spike. I hadn’t talked to them in years. They ended up in Boise because Aunt Marian lives there. I called a couple times. But the first time I accidentally-on-purpose let it slip that I had gone out on a date with a guy, that was the end of it. They disowned me. And then they died in a car wreck a while later.”

“Better off without them.”

“Pretty much. Why the sudden interest in my family life?”

Spike shrugged and looked away. “Just passing time.”

“We’re almost there.”

“I know.” Spike picked at the hem of his shirt. When they were in Minneapolis a few months earlier, he’d somehow managed to find a leather duster nearly identical to his old one, but his lighter was long gone and he hadn’t taken up smoking again. So now he had nothing much to fidget with. After a few miles he’d unraveled a piece of the fabric, and he sighed. “Are you certain we can’t do it from here?” he asked.

Giles stopped playing with his phone. “We’ve been through this. Several times. The spell requires that I be in the precise location—”

“Yeah, yeah. Stupid sodding magic.”

When Xander was twelve, he’d been forced to endure a family road trip to the Grand Canyon crammed into the back seat of a station wagon with his cousins Darren and Dwight. At least Spike didn’t keep asking whether they were there yet, and hadn’t once got car sick and puked all over Xander’s lap.

Spike undid another inch or so of his shirt. At this rate he’d be naked when they got there. “How long will it take? Don’t fancy spending all night in a bloody alley, watching you chant.”

“I don’t know how long it will take,” Giles said. “It’s not a particularly complicated spell, but I have no way of knowing what—”

“Blah blah de bloody blah. Just get it over with.” And Spike fixed his face in a disgruntled pout that would have made cousin Darren proud.

Less than an hour later, Angel pulled the Galaxie to a halt on a nondescript street that was nearly deserted at this time of night. Spike was visibly tense, and Xander very badly wanted to give him a comforting hand on the shoulder, but he wasn’t at all certain Spike wouldn’t bite it off.

The four of them piled out of the car and walked to the mouth of the alley. Xander stopped there, feeling more or less irrelevant to the events at hand. Spike halted too, right beside him, while Angel and Giles walked on in. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Spike said.

“Neither did the Sunnydale High basement.”

Angel and Giles were pacing around a little, talking quietly. Xander moved over a few steps and leaned against the bricks. Spike smiled a little. “You look like a rent boy like that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s a lot of one-eyed hustlers on the strip, Spike.”

“It doesn’t detract from your looks. Makes you look dangerous. Some blokes like that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind in case the demon-hunting doesn’t work out.”

Xander was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Spike had paid him a compliment when Angel called them over. Xander stood next to his lover, their arms comfortably around each others’ waists, and Spike was nearby, scuffing his toes on the rough pavement. Giles had what looked like a ball of brownish yarn in his hand, but it was giving off little crackles of energy like a miniature lightning storm. “Spike, Angel believes this is close to where you were standing when you…disappeared. Do you agree?”

“How would I know? I was too busy fighting a bloody horde to whip out my GPS.” Giles gave him a stern look, and Spike hunched his shoulders a little and looked around. “Yeah, I reckon this is about it.”

Giles nodded. “Very well.” He said something that might have been in Greek and then he dropped the yarn, holding on to the loose end. The ball fell and rolled a few feet away and stopped. And then, as if it had changed its mind, it rolled back. It floated into the air just a few feet from Giles, hovered momentarily, and began to whip and twist around too quickly to track. When it was still again, the ball had transformed itself into what appeared to be the world’s most complicated cat’s cradle. It was buzzing like a wasps’ nest, a sound that grated on Xander’s ears and made him wince. Giles tugged once on his end of the yarn and then it didn’t look like yarn at all anymore, but instead a big-screen TV—in 3D.

“Cool. I want one,” Xander said, and Giles shot him a dirty look.

Giles made some kind of twirly gestures with his free hand. The magic picture began to move. It was a battle, Xander saw, a big one. Angel and Spike were there, vamped out and swinging swords, both of them liberally coated in gore. The ground was piled with corpses and pieces of corpses. There was a blue lady standing near Spike and Giles, waving her arms around like some sort of demented kung-fu master, and whatever she was doing seemed to be pretty lethal to the various creatures that came near her. And there were a lot of creatures. Some of them were demon species Xander recognized—mostly the nastier sorts—and some looked straight out of a really bad acid trip. There was a dragon flapping around, too, a genuine fucking dragon. “Jesus Christ,” Xander couldn’t help but whisper. Angel hugged him more tightly.

They were fighting valiantly, Xander saw. It was beautiful, really, the way they swung and ducked and parried, their dusters swirling around them, their faces fixed in savage grins. But they were losing. Xander had been in enough fights that it was pretty obvious. And even though he knew that neither of them actually ended up dusted, it made his heart race and his stomach clench to see them come so close.

The dragon swooped down at the blue lady and, with one smack of its talons, tore her apart. The real, live Angel beside Xander groaned and Spike made a dismayed sound.

But the fight went on. Something the size of a VW Bug, with what looked like three heads, took a swipe at Spike, very nearly decapitating him. Spike lurched to the side, only to come face-to-face with a monster whose eyes glowed, setting Spike’s duster on fire. Spike tried to shrug out of the coat but got tangled in it. At the same time, a demon with a fence post in its hands lunged at Angel, and the point of the post closed in on Angel’s chest.

The scene froze.

Froze, that is, except for a man who appeared at the corner of the screen. He was wearing a suit and tie, and he had thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a thick pair of glasses. He looked like a tax attorney. He had a yellow legal pad in one hand and a pen in the other. He walked over to Angel’s still figure and wrote something down on his pad. Angel vanished. Then the man turned to Spike, repeated his writing, and _poof_! No more Spike. The man tapped the pen thoughtfully on his chin as he gazed around at the remaining aborted mayhem. He scribbled a few words, paused, and scribbled some more. The entire assorted demon assemblage, dragon and all, burst into flame—the man remained untouched—and burned until there was nothing left but a layer of ash.

The man tucked his pen into his coat pocket and walked away.

When nothing else happened, Giles tugged on the end of the yarn again. The screen became a web of yarn, which rolled itself into a neat little ball and nestled into Giles’s hand.

“Well, then,” Spike said. “That was entertaining.” But his voice sounded thin and a little shaky.

“Who the fuck was that?” asked Xander.

Angel growled a little. “The Powers That Be.”

Spike stomped out of the alley and toward the Galaxie. He threw himself into the back seat and slammed the door.

“Spike’s right,” Angel said. “Let’s get out of here.”

They were all very silent as they drove away.

 

***

 

They checked into a Hilton and got two adjoining rooms. By unspoken agreement, Giles went into one room while the others went into the second. None of them was ready yet to discuss what they’d seen in the alley. Spike and Angel and Xander all stripped, quickly and business-like, still without saying anything. While Spike drank some of the blood they’d brought with them in a cooler—cow’s blood, bought from a butcher somewhere near the Oklahoma-Texas border—Angel and Xander took turns in the bathroom. Then they all piled into bed, Spike, as usual, in the middle.

Xander thought they’d all go straight to sleep. But Spike cleared his throat. “If you two fancy a shag, I can leave for a while.”

“Stay here, Spike,” Angel said.

“Yeah, stay,” echoed Xander.

“Not a bloody dog.” But Spike sounded pleased.

 

***

 

It was early afternoon as the four of them sat around a table in the hotel bar, ignoring the insipid music playing in the background. Giles, Spike, and Angel all had whiskey, but Xander had opted for Coke.

“Why’d they do it? And if they could just snap their fingers and get rid of all the demons, why didn’t they do that _before_ everyone was killed?” Xander asked.

Angel rubbed his face. “I know the answer to the second part. If they interfere too much it’s cheating or something.”

“Cheating? What is this, a fucking game of Monopoly? Besides, isn’t zapping you two into other dimensions pretty goddamn interfering?”

“I don’t know, Xander. I’ve never pretended to understand the Powers.”

“And they, what? They just move people around like you’re the little dog or car or something. ‘Oops, you landed on Demon Battle Street. Go directly to an asylum, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.’”

Angel took Xander’s hand in his. “They’re not human, Xander, not even remotely. We can’t expect to—”

“Bollocks,” interrupted Spike. “I’m not human either, but I understand them just fine. They’re wankers.” He slammed his glass down on the table as if that settled everything.

Xander shook his head. “Wankers or not, that doesn’t explain why they did this.”

Angel began, “Maybe they were—”

“We don’t have to guess,” Giles interrupted. “I’d hoped that when we learned who was responsible for transporting you, that knowledge might help defeat the firm. But now I believe we may have to speak directly with the Powers.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not so easy,” Angel said. “There were these oracles, but they’re dead, and they weren’t all that helpful anyway.”

“We don’t need oracles.”

“Yeah, then how do we contact them?”

Giles smiled and pulled out his cell phone from his jacket. “We ring them.”

They all stared at him incredulously. “We _ring_ them?” Spike said. “What’s the number? 1-800-FUCK-OFF?”

“This isn’t an ordinary mobile, of course, and it’s quite simple now that I have the magical signature of the individual involved.”

Angel said, “So when can we do it?”

“Now, I thought. No reason to drag things out. Wolfram &amp; Hart may be aware of our presence here and already planning action of some kind.”

The rest of them looked at each other. But when nobody raised an objection, Giles jabbed at the phone for a few seconds.

The mousy man they’d seen in the alley walked into the bar, a small smile on his face. He headed straight for their table, dragged a chair between Giles and Xander, then sat down. “Hello, gentlemen,” he said.

Spike looked horrified. He scooted his chair backwards and looked ready to make a run for it, but Angel clamped a hand around his wrist. “William,” Angel said with a warning tone.

“M not going to just sit here and let that pillock bugger—”

“William!” Angel repeated.

The man put out his hands, palms up, and pasted an innocent look on his face that didn’t quite work. “I’m not here to harm you, William. Or any of you. You did call _me_, didn’t you?”

Spike relaxed a little and Angel loosened his grip, but Xander noticed that Angel didn’t quite let go and Spike didn’t try to make him.

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Giles said, tucking away his phone.

The man shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Iapetos.”

“The Piercer,” Giles said.

Iapetos grinned. “I do love an educated man.”

Xander must have looked confused, because Iapetos turned to him and said, “Xander, Iapetos was Prometheus’s father and the god of mortal life. Now, I am actually childless, alas, but I do concern myself quite intimately with mortal lives.”

“How do you know my name?” Xander asked uncomfortably.

Iapetos laughed. “Know your name? Oh, my dear boy! I’ve known you since before your great-great grandparents were born.”

That statement didn’t make Xander any happier.

But Spike looked downright furious. “Don’t you go dragging him into this bloody business! It’s nothing to do with him.”

Iapetos shook his head sadly. “Ah, William. I’m afraid it has everything to do with him. To do with all of you, in fact.”

“What do you mean?” Angel asked.

“Well. It’s like this.” Iapetos settled himself a little more comfortably in his chair. “There was a prophecy—” Both Angel and Spike growled, and Iapetos put up his hand to silence them. “I know, I know. But it’s how things work. There’s no escaping it. Now, this prophecy was revealed several hundred years ago, and we’ve managed to keep it secret from our opponents all this time. Not an easy feat, I must say! And this prophecy says—well, it’s full of the usual obscure mumbo jumbo, of course, so I’ll just give you the gist of it. It says that our adversaries will be defeated by, well, you.”

“Me?” Angel said.

“All of you. The four of you. Two souled vampires, a Watcher—for some time we assumed that meant poor Wesley, but clearly we were wrong—and a human soldier.”

“I’m not a vampire!” Angel said, loudly enough that the people two tables over turned and stared.

“And I’m not a soldier,” Xander added more quietly. “Except for that one Halloween, but that doesn’t really count.”

Iapetos flapped his hand. “Details. Prophecies aren’t that picky, boys. Liam, you were a vampire much longer than you were human, and you still think like one in many ways, I believe. And you, Xander—you’ve seen more battles than most generals. I think that qualifies you.”

“I don’t get it. If you wanted Angel and Spike to fight this thing for you, why did you send them away?”

“To bring you together, of course. Well, we also managed to save your skins—that was some nasty battle! But we could have done that any number of ways. _This_ way, though, you all ended up working together, which was what we’d intended. And it wasn’t an easy thing, let me tell you! You people have spent more time trying to kill each other than cooperating, I think. Until lately, naturally. Lately you’ve been doing very well.”

Angel had gone very pale and Spike was clenching his jaw. Xander said, “Wait. You mean you intentionally set us up? You did that to Angel and Spike on _purpose_ so your prophecy would work out?”

Iapetos nodded.

“You son of a bitch! Do you know what Spike’s life was like in that place? Do you know what they fucking did to him?” The people were staring again, but Xander didn’t care. “How could you do that? Aren’t you supposed to be the good guys? He’s a fucking hero and you…you _hurt_ him!”

Xander might have socked the smug bastard in the nose, but now Angel had his big hand around Xander’s wrist. Spike, meanwhile, was giving Xander a very strange look, while Giles was frowning as he considered all of this.

In a low voice, Angel said, “So, in the other dimension…Alex. Was that all part of your plan, too?”

“Yes. Well, to some extent. We wanted you to find that particular version of him because he was a seer and a wizard, and we knew he could send you home and steer you towards this Xander. We didn’t anticipate that you’d form a romantic attachment with him. We didn’t anticipate the three of you becoming lovers, either.” He gestured towards Spike, Angel, and Xander.

“We’re not,” Spike said.

“Oh,” said Iapetos. “My apologies.” But he was smirking a little and didn’t look sorry at all. “In any case, after a great deal of time and considerable difficulty, we have at last brought our four champions together. Now we can see if our interpretation of the prophecy was accurate.”

“What about turning us human?” Angel asked quietly.

“You were both more vulnerable like that. In your case, that meant you were more likely to seek help. In William’s case, well, he wouldn’t have been endangered the same way as a vampire, would he? As to whether you stayed human when you returned, we hadn’t any control over that. But I think you’re just as capable in either form.”

Xander shook his head. “And after you’ve spent all this time playing us, you think we’re just gonna roll over and do what you say? Or maybe we don’t have any choice, and we’re all just gonna fall into line like a bunch of robot slaves. Or puppets.” Because the name, Iapetos, sounded a lot like Geppetto, didn’t it?

“There’s always a choice, Xander. Free will. It makes things infinitely more complicated, but more interesting as well. You’ve been making choices all along. You all have.” Iapetos chuckled slightly. “There were several times when we thought everything would finally fall into place with you, but then one of you would decide something—really, Liam, becoming CEO was a very foolish idea—and everything would fall apart. It was very frustrating to watch, as you might imagine! And we had to be subtle in our…manipulations…so that our opponents wouldn’t realize what was going on.”

Giles had been silent all this time, but now he said, “And what is it you expect us to do?”

Iapetos shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t bloody know?” Spike said.

“The prophecy doesn’t say how you defeat them. Even if it did, I probably couldn’t tell you. Self-fulfilling prophecies, paradoxes, Fox News…all very nasty things which should be avoided. I’m probably going to get in trouble for telling you all this as it is, but you were pretty close to finding out anyway and, frankly, some of my colleagues have become impatient.”

He stood and brushed at his pants legs, as if he’d somehow got crumbs all over them. “Gentlemen, it’s been delightful, but—”

“Wait!” Giles said. “I have more questions. How are we—”

“Sorry, Rupert. No can do.” Iapetos smiled like a crocodile. “It’ll all become clear enough eventually.” He began to walk towards the exit, then stopped and turned back around. “But I will give a bit of free advice to some of you. The Watcher was right—in your line of work, it’s best not to leave things unsaid.”

He gave them a little wave and walked away.

The four of them looked at each other across the table. Then Xander picked up his empty Coke can. “Cryptic _and_ annoying. Joy.”

“You don’t have to do this, Xander,” Spike said. “I don’t care what that bastard says. You can back away. Nobody will think the worse of you for it.”

Xander sighed. “Yeah, you could walk away, too. But we both know you won’t, and neither will I. Christ. If I’d done stuff differently, you wouldn’t have gone through that shit in Peoria, and…I’m sorry, Spike.”

Angel moved his hand down from Xander’s wrist so that their fingers were interlocked. “It’s not your fault, Xan. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s not like we had any way of knowing this crap.”

Giles nodded in agreement, but Spike was staring at Xander with his head tilted to the side. “Xander,” he began.

“What?”

Spike opened his mouth and then shut it. He shook his head. “Nothing. How about you buy us another round?”

[Chapter Nineteen](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/174062.html) 

 

  



	19. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 19/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

Thanks to my wonderful, hard-working beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , I'll be posting 2 chapters a day from now on. That way we'll be finished before I go out of town again.

_   
**Madhouse (19 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cxpcr/)  
  
---  
  
**Nineteen**

 

Angel and Giles were sitting in the hotel lounge, talking strategy as if they had a bloody clue what to do. Spike and Xander had begun by sitting with them as well, but Xander had long since tuned out the talk completely to watch a basketball game on the telly that hung near the bar, while Spike was mostly drinking and thinking. He wasn’t thinking about how to defeat Wolfram &amp; Hart, but rather what Iapetos had said just before he left, about things left unsaid. And he thought about the way Xander had nearly jumped down the man’s throat for subjecting Spike to the asylum.

But eventually he got tired of thinking, because his speculation was only running about in circles, leaving him frustrated. He drained his glass of Jack and stood. “I’ve had enough of this shite. I’m going to go find something to kill.”

Angel looked up at him with a pained expression. “Don’t. Wolfram &amp; Hart probably already knows we’re here, and if you’re in a vulnerable position—”

“Don’t bloody care. I’m going bonkers sitting here. Much longer and you’ll have to check me back into the asylum.”

Xander looked away from the game. “Do you suppose they have demon loony bins? I know there have been plenty of times a demon shrink would’ve come in handy. Or a little vamp Prozac.”

Spike glared at him. “You try wearing a soul after over a century of murder.”

“Hey. Not judging here. Instant soulitude plus The First would have driven me batty too. Not to mention toxic environmental estrogen levels and impending end of the world.”

Spike relaxed a bit. “Well, too many hours in a Hilton listening to those two natter is nearly as bad. I’m going.”

Angel rolled his eyes but didn’t try to stop him. Giles barely looked up from his laptop. But Xander hauled himself to his feet. “I’m going, too.”

“Xander,” Angel began.

“Come on, Ange. You don’t want me crazy, either, and there’s safety in numbers, and I’ll bring you back a burger from In-N-Out.”

Angel visibly wavered. “And a chocolate shake?”

Xander leaned down and kissed Angel’s temple. “It’s a deal.”

“Do be careful,” Giles said, which made both Xander and Spike smile.

When they got outside, Xander began to head for the car, but Spike stopped him. “Had enough time in there lately. Let’s see if we can find trouble on foot, yeah?”

“We’re in Beverly Hills, Spike. How much trouble could there be?”

Spike grinned. “Want to wager on how quickly I can find some?”

“Nope. That’s a bet I’m sure to lose.”

“Besides,” Spike said. “You’re here. That’s sure to attract every demon for miles, yeah?”

“Probably.” They began walking down the sidewalk, side by side. It was chilly out and Xander was wearing a navy jumper but no coat, so he hunched a bit. “They always do manage to find me. Everywhere I go, like I have a blinking neon sign over my head: _Eat at Xan’s_!”

Well, he was delicious, Spike thought, but didn’t say.

Xander babbled on. “I saw hardly any demons in that other world, though, and no vamps at all. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the Depression—shortages all the way ‘round, even in demons. Or maybe it was because those humans were nasty enough that they scared the demons away.”

“There are horrible humans everywhere, Xan, and in every time.”

“I know.”

Cars whooshed past them disapprovingly. You weren’t meant to walk in this city. But Spike felt good stretching his legs a bit, and he liked the way Xander would occasionally jostle against him, bumping elbows or shoulders. It was companionable, and Spike ached for companionship almost as much as for love. Some bloody Big Bad he was.

A few blocks later, Spike turned and led them down a side street, then another, and finally into an alley. “Used to be a spot here…ah. Here we are.” He pulled open a plain metal door. A hulking Hrgemnoth demon blocked their way, all its purple spines standing fully erect.

“Go away. Private club,” the demon rumbled.

Spike vamped out and bared his fangs. “Let us in, mate.”

The demon looked like it was thinking. Then it pointed a huge finger at Xander. “No humans.”

Xander didn’t back down. Spike wasn’t surprised—the boy had grown bold since leaving Sunnydale. “Don’t make him angry, Spiny,” Xander said. “You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.”

The Hrgemnoth looked back and forth between them, shrugged massively, and stepped aside. “Your funeral, human,” he said.

“Like I haven’t heard that before,” said Xander as they walked inside.

Spike had been to this place a few times when he was at Wolfram &amp; Hart. It was a dive, even by demon standards. It resembled a public loo in looks and smell, and although this was a slow night, there was still a good assortment of creatures slumped at the bar and next to tables, some of them drinking fluids that turned even Spike’s stomach. “You take me to the nicest places,” Xander said.

They made their way to a small table near the back. The table was sticky and so were the chairs and floor. They sat down anyway, and within a minute or so something with a tail and eight spider-like eyes walked over. “Yeth?” it asked, giving Xander a greedy look, Spike thought.

“Jack. Two of ‘em.”

The waiter nodded and walked away.

Xander leaned back a bit in his chair. “So,” he smiled. “What’s a nice demon like you doing in a place like this?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “If that’s your best attempt at humor, I might let that Mnalecki over there have you.”

“What? That orange stripey thing?”

“Yeah. He’s giving you the eye, he is.”

“Hmmm. Not my type.”

“Too demony?”

Xander shook his head. “Come on. You know my dating record. I don’t mind demony, but I like my demons a little more human-flavored.”

“And you love Angel.”

Xander nodded. “I do. Not predictable, but I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.”

The waiter came by with their drinks just then. Spike pulled out a ten and gave it to him. The waiter hissed some kind of thanks and left.

“He loves you as well, you know,” Spike said. “Likely won’t come out and say it, the big sod, but I can tell. He gets all googly-eyed around you, like he used to around Buffy.” He took a sip of his drink. He really didn’t fancy getting pissed right then.

Xander didn’t drink his at all, but rolled the glass between his palms. “I don’t need declarations of devotion. I know he’s there for me. There for us.”

Spike snorted. “He’s always the sodding hero.”

“That’s not what I mean. He’s…oh, hell, Spike. I don’t know. I just mean that we’re his, that’s all. And that’s a good thing.”

“We?”

Xander raised his eyebrows and then took a tiny sip of the whiskey.

Spike opened his mouth, perhaps meaning to pour out his undead heart, when a pair of vampires approached. The female was tall and athletic-looking, with pale skin and eyes like a Viking goddess. The male, however, was short and thin and had skin like burnished copper. “Bugger off, “ Spike said.

“We are interested in your thrall,” said the blonde. “He is intriguing.”

“He’s not my thrall,” Spike said.

“Yeah,” agreed Xander. “Haven’t eaten a bug in years.”

“All right, your snack, then. In any case, we should like to purchase him.”

Spike looked at Xander and then back at the female. “Yeah? And how much would you pay?”

 “One thousand dollars.”

“Hey!” Xander said. “I’m worth a lot more than that.”

“The boy’s right. He’s not just some kind of street trash. Look at him! He’s lovely.”

The female glanced at her companion. “Ten,” the male said. “And we’re not in the mood to negotiate.”

“The boy’s not for sale. And you’re not worthy of him, not at any price.” Spike thought that Xander sat up straighter in his seat.

The female took one step closer. “If you will not sell him, then we shall have to take him.”

Spike slipped back into his demon face and grinned. “Like to see you bloody try.”

A brawl ensued.

From the glimpses Spike caught, Xander enjoyed it as much as he did. Spike saw Xander neatly stake the male vampire in the chest, then turn around and use the same stake to clobber a fishy-looking thing that had been coming up behind him. In the meantime, Spike managed to dust the blonde bint with a chair leg. Spike lost track after that of who—or, more precisely, what—he was fighting, but he could see that Xander was holding his own quite nicely.

Eventually, everything that had been in the mood for a fight was dead or mangled or unconscious, and the rest of the patrons were standing far away. Spike reached over and finished off his drink, which was miraculously undisturbed, and then Xander’s. With a wave at the disgruntled barkeeper, they left.

As they made their way back to the hotel, they were both bruised and bloody. Xander’s hair was a sweaty, tangled mess and his eyepatch was askew. He was laughing—they were both laughing like a pair of nutters—and Spike wanted to slam him against the nearest wall and fuck him into next Tuesday. No, he didn’t. He wanted to take him back to their room and strip off those clothes, and then nip and lick at every inch of Xander’s flesh. He wanted to run his palms over that broad chest and suck on the lobe of one of those protruding ears. He wanted to bury his nose in Xander’s pubic hair like a dog and nuzzle at Xander’s bollocks. He wanted to knead the muscles of Xander’s fine, firm arse.

“What’s the matter, Spike?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause you were looking at me kind of funny just then.”

Spike stopped and Xander did too, a puzzled look on his face. A Camaro sped by, blasting Lady Gaga at full volume. _Things left unsaid_, Spike thought.

“I have to tell you something. I know you came to rescue me as a favor for Angel, and I know you only cared for me so nicely because…because that’s what you do, and—”

“No, I—”

“Wait! Let me bloody finish this.” Spike took a deep breath. “I know I’m a monster. And you love Angel. The two of you have let me stay with you because you need an ally, and…we’ve become mates, I expect. Reasonable enough under the circumstances. I know I’m bloody lucky to have this much and I’m about to bugger it up. I always do, don’t I? But I can’t not say this any longer. I ache for you, Xander. I remember what it was like in that bloody place when I’d lost my mind, and you kept me near you all the time and you were my anchor, my, my foundation. The bloody center of my universe. And now, every minute that I’m not touching you, it burns me like the sun.”

Xander didn’t recoil or look horrified. That was good. Instead, he seemed stunned. “You want…you want me to touch you, Spike?”

Fuck. Spike was crying again. “I want you to _love_ me, the way you love Angel. The way I love you.”

Xander just stood there, his mouth hanging open as if someone had lobotomized him. Spike wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Bloody _hell_,” he said, his voice thick and choked. He turned and marched away, away from the hotel, away from…everything.

But there were fast footsteps behind him and then a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Wait!” Xander said. “You don’t get to lay all that on me and just go away.”

“I’ll keep tilting after windmills with you, no worries. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Iapetos.”

“Fuck Iapetos and the Powers and Wolfram &amp; Hart and all the rest of them! You just said you love me!”

“I do love you!” Spike yelled back. And then, much more quietly, “’M sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you say something months ago?”

“I didn’t want to lose you. Or Angel, either.”

“We’re such idiots, Spike.”

Spike furrowed his brow. “Why? Because you let me stay with you?”

“No! Because—this!” And Xander grabbed Spike’s shoulders and pulled him close and kissed him. It was a bit of a messy kiss, seeing as how Xander’s lip was split and puffy from the fight, and Spike was taken by surprise. Their teeth clacked together. But, oh God, it was a _kiss_, and it was passionate and ferocious and bloody real, and that was Xander’s heart hammering against Spike’s chest, and Xander’s stubble scraping against his skin. A car zoomed by and somebody wolf-whistled at them.

After an eternity that was far too short, Xander released his grip on Spike’s shoulders and took a half step back. “Wow,” he said.

Spike was gaping like a fish. “What the bloody hell was that?”

“This newfangled thing they call a kiss.”

“But…you kissed me.”

“Kinda felt like there was mutual kissage there.”

“But you don’t…. And Angel….”

“Angel and I have both been desperate for you since we got back. I miss being joined at the hip, too, Spike, and, well, gotta admit here. Haven’t been feeling especially platonic for a good long time. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for us both to have you right there in bed with us and not…not _have_ you?”

Spike’s took a long, shaky breath. “Fairly certain I do. But why didn’t _you_ say something, berk?”

“Because it’s me. Donut Boy, right? I sure didn’t think you’d…. And you and Angel, you’ve got a whole thing, and like you said, he’s not much for announcements of adoration. But I told you he cared, didn’t I?”

Spike felt as if he’d been transported to an alternate world again, only this one was infinitely nicer than the one with the asylum. “What do you want, Xander?”

“I want to go back to our room and get naked. I want to explore the possibilities of man-on-man-on-vamp sex. It’s been a while for me and Angel, you know.”

“Been longer for me.” Gravely, Spike added, “You know what…what they did to me in that place. That doesn’t disgust you?”

“Of course it disgusts me! To think about anybody treating someone else that way, especially treating my friend that way, my…whatever you are to me. I don’t know if they’ve invented a word for that. Important. How’s that?”

“But you saw me when I was so sodding weak and ruined.”

Xander put a hand on Spike’s shoulder again. “Never ruined. Besides, I’ve seen you crazy in the basement and recently chipped and suicidal. You got better. And you! You’ve seen me dump Anya at the altar and cheat on Cordy and get syphilis and…and Angel saved me from being raped and killed once. Did he ever tell you that?”

“Raped?”

“Faith. She was having a rough day.”

“You have led an interesting life, haven’t you?”

Xander smiled. “That’s one way to put it. Come on. Let’s go back.” He tugged on Spike’s arm and then they were running. Spike purposely held himself back, keeping abreast of Xander, and he was laughing as he went—they both were.

 

***

 

Angel had more ways to look irritated than any creature Spike had ever met. As they burst into the room, he was sitting at the desk reading a book, and he gave them Annoyed Look #472. “What the hell happened to you two?”

Neither of them bothered to answer. Instead, they tackled him.

Xander hit him from one side, nearly knocking him off the chair, but Spike caught him. The chair toppled, his book went flying, and Xander was tearing at Angel’s poncy clothing as Spike dragged him to the bed. Angel sputtered and swore and tried to fight his way free, but he was no match for the pair of them.

When he was naked, Spike and Xander pulled the clothes off one another, managing to keep Angel on the mattress as they did so, so that by the time they were all bare the humans were all flushed and sweating and lovely.

“What the _fuck_?!” Angel said breathlessly, trying delightfully to buck them off. “Did you get hit with a spell? I told you not to go out. Let me at the phone and I’ll call Giles and—”

Xander shut him up with the efficient method of covering Angel’s mouth with his own. Spike squiggled down the bed and twisted so that his mouth was even with their groins, which were pressed together. He pried them slightly apart and began to lick at their cocks, alternating between them until Angel’s was as hard as Xander’s—and Spike’s own, for that matter—and Angel’s struggles became considerably less determined.

But when Xander broke off the snogging to join Spike in admiring Angel’s cock, Angel sat up and pushed them both slightly aside. “What the hell is going on? What are you doing?”

“Should think that would be fairly obvious,” Spike said, reaching for Angel’s and Xander’s cocks at the same time.

Angel batted his hand away. “Why are you doing this?” He looked a bit plaintive.

Xander sat up as well. “Spike and I had a talk.”

Angel brushed a finger over Xander’s injured lip. “Looks more like you had a boxing match.”

“Yeah, well, we did that first. Some vamps wanted to buy me but Spike wasn’t happy with the price.”

Angel looked at Spike, who shrugged. “Ten grand, Peaches. He’s worth loads more than that.”

“Maybe it’s the eye and the fingers,” Xander said. “I’m a dented can. And they didn’t even see the other scars.”

Spike stroked the scars on Xander’s belly. “Your scars are pretty.”

“Says William the Bloody,” Xander grinned.

“Could somebody _please_ tell me what’s going on?” Angel whined.

Xander put an arm around Angel’s shoulders. “We had a nice bar fight. Then, on the way home, Spike said he loves me. And we already knew he loves you. It’s all one big old love-fest. So we decided we needed to come back and celebrate appropriately.”

“I don’t…I don’t think I understand,” Angel said.

“Stop trying, pet. You’ll get wrinkles. I haven’t had a leg over in ages and I’ve been wanting to taste Xander for months, so let’s save the discussion for later, yeah?”

And perhaps Angel was persuaded by Spike’s words, but it was more likely Spike’s hands on Angel’s cock and Xander’s on Angel’s chest that did the trick, because Angel allowed himself to be pushed flat on the bed and devoured.

It didn’t take long before Spike lost track of who was doing what to whom, of where one body ended and the next began. Sometimes he heard moaning and realized it was his own, as the three of them stroked and writhed and rocked together in a sweaty, sticky heap. Xander was as delicious as Spike had hoped and, it turned out, more limber than he appeared. Neither of the humans had Spike’s demonic stamina or refractory period, but that was all right; they each enjoyed resting for a short while and watching Spike with the other man.

When even Spike was knackered, they collapsed. None of the bedding except the bottom sheet was left on the bed, and it was wet, but none of them had the energy to do anything about it. Once again Spike was in the middle, but this time Angel was nestled tightly against his back and Xander was pressed to his front, and he was wonderfully encased in their arms. Angel forgot to complain that they hadn’t brought him a hamburger and shake. Spike slept better than he had in decades.

[Chapter Twenty](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/174540.html) 

  



	20. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 20/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

Thanks to my wonderful, hard-working beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , I'll be posting 2 chapters a day from now on. That way we'll be finished before I go out of town again.

_   
**Madhouse (20 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cf0b4/)  
  
---  
  
**Twenty**

 

“I trust you all received sufficient sleep?” Giles’s mouth was slightly quirked, and Xander realized somewhat belatedly that their room shared a wall with his, and that they may have been a tiny bit noisy the previous night. Xander blushed, while Angel rolled his eyes and Spike looked incredibly smug.

“Jealous, Rupert?” Spike asked.

“Just hoping you’re prepared to concentrate on other matters now.”

Spike smirked and wedged himself into the impossibly narrow space on the couch between Xander and Angel. He lounged back and put his arms up behind their shoulders. Xander felt a little like Spike was Hugh Heffner and Xander and Angel were Bunnies, but that was all right, because his muscles were really nice and sore from the good brawl and the fairly athletic sex, and he was enjoying flexing them a little just to feel them twinge. And, yeah, Giles was about to tell them something awful that would probably get them all killed, but for a short time he’d been happy, and so had his lovers—that was a plural!—and that was pretty damn fine. If there’s one thing he’d learned—well, one thing other than fighting demons—it was to appreciate moments of joy when he got them. Like once, outside of Bratislava, he’d gone for a walk across a hillside studded with red poppies, and—

“Xander, are you listening at all?”

“Huh? Um, sorry, Giles.”

 “I was saying that I may have found a solution to our problems.”

“Really? That’s great! So let’s go to it and then, um, we can retire, right?”

Giles gave Xander his Pissy British Face. “It’s not that simple, of course.”

Xander groaned. “Of course. It’s never simple, is it? It’s never call 911, or return the magic necklace, or say ‘Oops, my bad!’ and that's it. It’s always messy and complicated and people get hurt or killed.”

“Are you quite finished?” Giles said, but Spike leaned over and nuzzled gently against Xander’s neck.

“Go ahead,” Xander grumbled to Giles.

“I had the idea from our friend, Iapetos. If it works, it won’t destroy the firm altogether—I’m afraid that may be quite beyond our means—but it will banish them from this dimension. I believe that’s satisfactory, is it not?”

“It’s good for me,” Angel said. “How?”

Giles settled himself a little more comfortably in his chair and Xander couldn’t quite stifle a groan. He knew what Giles looked like when he was settling into Lecture Mode. But Spike rubbed his lips against Xander’s neck again, right in the sensitive spot under his jawline, and Xander had a moment of regret that he hadn’t had his own Spike and Angel at his side during all the Giles lectures of his youth.

“Most simply stated,” Giles said, “we must cast the firm into another world in the same manner Iapetos cast Angel and Spike. If we take some care with where it is sent, it shall never be able to return.”

Angel shook his head. “The firm has offices all over the globe and thousands of employees. We could never zap them all away—nobody’s got that much mojo. Even Willow had to put up an effort to move just three people. We could send away the current CEO, I guess, maybe a few of her minions, but they’d only be replaced.”

“I’m not talking about sending away the people, Angel—I mean we should send away the firm itself.”

The three men on the couch looked at each other in bewilderment. “How do you send a firm away, Giles?” Xander asked.

Giles looked pretty pleased with himself. “Wolfram &amp; Hart isn’t just a firm, it’s a company. A corporation, as a matter of fact. By definition, that means it is treated as a person for legal purposes. A corporation may sue or be sued, it is considered a citizen of the jurisdiction in which it resides. According to a recent Supreme Court decision, it even enjoys First Amendment rights.”

“Ta for the law lesson, Rupert, but we’ve had enough of lawyers already, remember?”

Giles shook his head impatiently. “Don’t you see? In this world, Wolfram &amp; Hart has chosen to incorporate itself—to take the form of a person. And a single person can easily be sent elsewhere.”

“But, Giles,” Angel said. “Incorporation is a legal fiction. There’s no physical body.”

“Not yet. But when it manifested here, the firm subjected itself to certain rules and it defined its own form. I daresay in other worlds it takes structures very different to this one. Here, though, it has declared itself a person, for all intents and purposes. And I believe we can use its own declaration against it, by forcing it into an actual body.”

“Oookay,” Xander said. “So if I get you right, we somehow…jam the firm into an actual meat suit, and then we push the eject button and send it far, far away.”

Giles nodded. “Basically, yes.”

“Dandy. And where do we get this body? Grave-robbing? ‘Cause I’ve done that before—and that’s a really long story—and I don’t want a repeat.”

“There will be no grave-robbing, Xander. We shall need a living body.”

“And what happens to the person who’s already using that body?” Angel asked.

“He remains. He becomes…possessed, I expect. Or perhaps a more symbiotic relationship forms, much like when a human becomes a vampire.”

In a low voice, Spike said, “And how, exactly, are we meant to find someone to be inhabited this way and then banished? It isn’t as if—”

“I’ll do it,” Angel said.

And, in unison, Spike and Xander said, “No!”

Spike added, “I just bloody got you, Liam. ‘M not giving you up already.”

“Ditto,” said Xander.

“For once, I agree with Xander and Spike,” Giles said. “Aside from the fact that the three of you are clearly quite…bonded, I don’t believe it would be wise to use you, Angel. Given your past connection with the firm, I’m not certain what would happen if it were to co-exist with you. It would be best if we used someone who had little or no previous connection with the firm.”

“Not Xander!” This time it was Angel and Spike who spoke as one, and Xander couldn’t agree more. He’d had a hyena spirit in him once, and been a soldier that time on Halloween. That was more than enough possessions for him.

“No, not Xander,” said Giles. “Of course not. Actually, I was rather thinking I would volunteer.”

“But…but you, can’t, Giles!” Xander protested.

“Why not? Someone must. I certainly wouldn’t force this on anyone else. And unlike you, I have no…romantic attachments, nobody who….” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m clearly the wisest choice.”

“But you have us! Me and Buff and Willow and Dawn, and—”

“And all of you are several years past needing me.”

“Well, yeah, we grew up. But that doesn’t mean…. Giles, we’re _family_. Since this seems to be National Declare Your Feelings Week, let me say it. You’re like our Dad. You’re better than any of our real dads ever were, actually. We’re not throwing you to the wolves.”

It was Giles’s turn to flush slightly and he began to furiously polish his glasses. He mumbled something completely unintelligible and possibly not even in English.

Angel rubbed at his face. “We need a different plan. There’s nobody rotten enough to do this to, and none of us are going to let it be you, Giles.”

Giles put his glasses back on and turned up his palms. “I have no other ideas.”

But Spike had been uncharacteristically quiet for some time, and now he went very still. His face looked stricken. “Spike? What is it?” Xander asked.

Spike turned and looked at Xander with deeply shadowed eyes. “I know someone rotten enough,” he said.

 

***

 

“You’re not going, Spike.”

“Just because we’re shagging doesn’t mean you get to order me about, whelp.”

“Well, yeah, it kinda does, ‘cause we’re not just _shagging_ and you know that perfectly well.”

“You think I’m too bloody weak for it, don’t you? Too fragile and broken to bear it.”

“You’re not fragile. I just—”

“Enough!” Angel had twisted around in his seat to glare at them. “If I have to listen to this for another couple hundred miles I’m gonna stuff you both in the trunk.”

“Hear, hear,” mumbled Giles, who was taking a turn behind the wheel.

Xander figured Angel and Giles together could probably handle him pretty easily, but Spike, not so much. Unless Giles had some vamp mojo up his sleeve. So he closed his mouth and crossed his arms and glared instead. Spike did likewise.

There had been no real reason to stay in LA anymore, and it wasn’t a place with pleasant memories for Spike and Angel, so they’d decided to leave. They’d dithered for a while about where to go—there was really not any particular place that they needed to be—until Xander had suggested Inverness, up in Marin County. His boss from the construction firm had sent the crew there a couple years earlier to build a custom house for a friend. The area was pretty, it was fairly isolated, and Xander knew of a tiny inn right on Tomales Bay where nobody would bug them. Spike was a little worried about getting enough to eat, but Xander had pointed out that there were plenty of cows in the area or, if Spike felt a little wilder, elk and deer were close by at Point Reyes.

So they’d headed north. As soon as it was a reasonable time in England, Xander called Willow and filled her in on the plan. She agreed to fly to San Francisco as soon as she could, and then drive up to meet them.

Somewhere in the middle of the endless Central Valley, Xander got tired of pouting. He scooted over on the back seat until he was squashing Spike against the door and then, ignoring Giles’s presence in the driver’s seat, nibbled lightly on Spike’s earlobe. He’d guessed from his experiences with Angel that teeth near neck might be a major turn-on for Spike, and he’d been right. Spike’s tense muscles loosened and he turned his head so they were kissing properly and Xander was tasting the onion rings Spike had stolen from him at dinner.

Angel turned around in his seat again, but this time he wasn’t yelling. His pupils dilated and a slight flush crept up his cheeks. He had told Xander that Spike liked to watch, but Xander had recently learned that it was a pretty major case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Spike’s hand wandered over to Xander’s lap and began to massage the denim over Xander’s growing arousal. Xander quickly returned the favor.

“Stop that!” Giles said. “I’m not so ancient that I don’t notice what’s happening in the back seat. Surely you can control yourselves for another two hours?”

Xander looked at Spike’s slightly kiss-swollen lips and sparkling eyes, and wasn’t sure he could control himself. Maybe Giles should shove them in the trunk after all.

 

***

 

The inn was just a row of a half-dozen rooms adjacent to a lodge. Angel had called ahead and explained that a member of their party was sensitive to sunlight and they’d be arriving sometime during the night. The place wasn’t actually staffed at night, but the innkeeper had promised to leave their room unlocked for them. They were apparently pretty trusting sorts at this place.

Sure enough, after the Galaxie crunched over the gravel parking lot and pulled to a halt, they checked the door to Room 1 and it opened. The room was actually a suite with two bedrooms, a small living room area, and a tiny kitchen. It had a deck that opened out onto what was probably a lovely view of the bay during the daytime, but was now just dark. Spike stepped outside anyway and inhaled deeply. “Deer nearby. I fancy a nosh. You settle in without me, yeah?”

“It’s almost dawn,” Angel said.

“I’ve managed to avoid getting caught by the sun for over a hundred years, Liam. I reckon I can look out for myself.”

So Spike kissed them both and took off. The rest of them took turns in the bathroom, and Xander and Angel retired to the smaller bedroom. It had two double beds, which they pushed together. Not ideal, maybe, but the window in that room faced north and had a wide overhang outside, so it was more vampire-safe than the east-facing window in Giles’s room.

Xander and Angel climbed under the blankets and, although they held each other, the bed seemed empty without Spike. The radiator clanked noisily. “You can’t stop him from going, you know. He’s possibly even more mule-headed than you,” Angel said.

Xander sighed. “I know. It’s only…if you’d seen what it was like, what _he _was like.”

“I saw the aftermath. I know him well enough to know he’s still hurting over it, not that he’ll ever admit it.”

“And facing that monster again—that’s not gonna do him any good, I don’t think. Hell, I’m scared of the guy and he never laid a finger on me.”

Angel threaded his fingers through the hair at the back of Xander’s head and kissed Xander’s forehead. “You can’t save everyone all the time, you know.”

“Yeah? Look who’s talking.”

They lay like that a long time, neither of them sleeping, maybe both of them thinking about friends they’d been unable to rescue in the past. Then the door to their suite opened and softly closed, and they heard the familiar sounds of Spike shucking his clothing and washing up. When Spike climbed up the foot of the bed to wedge himself between them he was ice cold and he smelled like the sea. Xander and Angel covered as much of his body with theirs as they could. Spike sighed happily as their warmth began to seep into his body.

“Did you have a nice hunt?” Angel murmured, maybe a little wistfully.

“Yeah. Caught some deer. Saw a mountain lion as well, but we let each other be.”

Xander slid a hand down to Spike’s belly, which felt slightly rounded and taut. Spike arched into his touch. He might have tried to say something, but it came out muffled because Angel was kissing him pretty thoroughly. Xander smiled and set his free hand on Angel’s big, muscular ass, which flexed slightly and then relaxed. Two hands began to stroke Xander as well: a wide, hot one just below his ribs; a long, cool one on his already-interested cock.

When Angel pulled away from Spike’s mouth to suck and gnaw at his neck instead, Spike groaned. “Been hard for you since Stanislaus County,” he said. “Would’ve had you both in the car if it weren’t for the Watcher.”

“It’s better when you wait,” Angel said.

Spike chuckled. “You are the king of waiting.” But his laugh devolved into a moan when Angel bit down on the tender skin over Spike’s jugular, and Spike bucked helplessly into Xander’s hand until all three of them were sticky with Spike’s spend.

“That took a bit of the edge off,” Spike panted. His cock didn’t soften at all and Xander felt momentarily envious. But that feeling was quickly forgotten when Spike shoved them both off and rolled onto his front, then pushed up onto all fours. Xander and Angel smiled at each other and then ran their hands appreciatively over Spike, very much the same way they might have stroked an expensive sports car during a visit to the showroom. And Spike did, indeed, have very fine lines, all smooth sleek skin over firm muscle. Spike grinned and waggled his ass a little.

There was a certain choreography necessary with three-way sex, a choreography they hadn’t yet practiced enough to perfect. So their movements were a little clumsy: Xander and Angel both reached for the lube at the same time, although Xander was closer and got there first, and then they knelt there uncertainly for a few seconds, not sure whose body part was going to go where. Spike huffed impatiently and scooted around a little so that his face was even with Xander’s crotch. Xander handed Angel the bottle and Angel positioned himself between Spike’s legs.

That was perfect, Xander thought. Because then he could work his fingers into Spike’s hair, softening it from the crinkly gel, while he watched Angel prepare Spike’s hole with a dollop of lube and two long fingers, and while Spike lapped and sucked at the juncture of Xander’s torso and inner thighs. All three of them moaned when Angel pushed the head of his cock into the cleft of Spike’s buttocks and then, slowly, deep inside Spike.

Xander was so mesmerized by the sight of Angel’s thick cock disappearing into Spike and then reappearing, red and glistening, that he barely noticed when Spike took Xander’s cock into his mouth and swallowed. “Oh, fuck,” someone said, and Xander was surprised to realize it was himself. Then he couldn’t say anything because he and Angel were leaning together over Spike’s back and Angel was taking possession of Xander’s mouth, the movements of his tongue echoing the tempo of their hips.

It was all almost too much for Xander’s blood-deprived brain to process, so he stopped trying, stopped pinpointing where each exquisite sensation was coming from and let it all just wash over him like warm ocean waves. But then Spike pulled his mouth away from Xander’s cock, and laughed when Xander flexed his hips to attempt to chase him.

“Xan,” Spike said in a voice so husky and sex-filled Xander could nearly have come from the sound of it alone. “Can I taste you, pet? Please?”

In his more honest moments, Xander admitted to himself that, ever since he was fifteen, he’d wondered what a vampire bite felt like. He’d been given tantalizing hints now and then—the way Buffy’s face turned crimson after Angel had fed from her that time and Willow had asked what it was like; the way Riley Finn had got himself addicted to it—but Xander had never had first-hand experience. The moment a vampire became one of his lovers, though, Xander had known that sooner or later he would find out what it was like.

Now, he pulled slightly away from Angel’s lips and stroked Spike’s hair. “Yeah. Go for it.”

Spike went for it. He looked up at Xander as he vamped out and, despite the proximity of those very sharp fangs to some of Xander’s favorite body parts, he found himself even more turned on than before. Angel stopped pumping into Spike so he could watch, too, as Spike licked the inside of Xander’s left thigh—his tongue seemed suddenly rougher—and then sank the tips of his fangs into the skin.

It hurt. Not a lot, though. It was like getting an injection. On a scale of one to ten, where ten was getting your eye gouged out and seven was having fingers amputated, it was barely a one. And then it was less than that, or maybe just on a whole different scale altogether, because a tingling warmth spread from the tiny wounds through his body—channeling itself through his conveniently located cock and balls—and it felt like his skin was shimmering and his insides were all pulled tight and his head had floated away altogether. Still watching avidly, Angel began to flex his hips again, every thrust sending Spike jarring against Xander, and the flesh along Spike’s back shivered and twitched and Spike made an unearthly sort of howling noise against Xander’s leg, and when his hair brushed against Xander’s cock, it was just right, and suddenly too much, and Xander climaxed. Spike moved his head slightly and lapped at Xander’s semen almost as enthusiastically as he’d taken his blood. Angel’s movements became jerky and uncoordinated and he must have come as well, because then he was hanging over Spike’s back and gasping for air.

Xander ended up in the middle of the bed once they’d untangled themselves. Although Spike couldn’t have had more than a few mouthfuls of his blood, Xander felt lightheaded. “That’s it. The last of my brain cells are gone.”

“’S all right,” Spike purred against his cheek. “Isn’t your brains we love you for.”

“Well, I don’t think the rest of me is going to be back in commission for a while, either.”

“So sleep.”

Spike was as warm as the humans  were now, but he still smelled slightly of the ocean.

 

  
***  


 

“The train was fun and all, but this time we’re landing straight in Peoria.”

“You don’t have to go, Willow,” Xander said “Things might get messy. Just teach me the spell thing and we can hitch our own ride home.”

She shook her head. “No way, mister. It’s not going to be so easy, not if you have…someone extra with you. And a little extra magic on hand never hurt.”

Xander sighed. He knew he wouldn’t be any better at dissuading her than he had been with Spike. At least Angel was going to stay, along with Giles. Someone had to hold down the fort in case Wolfram &amp; Hart made a move. But Angel looked unhappy about it. “I was thinking, “ he said. “Maybe you guys should go to Sunnydale first.”

“Why the hell would we want to do that?” Xander said.

“Remember the Gem of Amara? It should still be there in 1940.”

Spike blinked in surprise. “Thought you didn’t want anyvamp to have it?”

“I didn’t. Before. But now…I kinda want you to stay safe.” Angel looked uncomfortable.

“Cheers. But it might not even be there in that world, or perhaps that earthquake came a bit later and the Master is still haunting the place, and I don’t much fancy meeting old bat-face again. And I don’t want to take the time. I’ll be fine.”

Angel looked doubtful, but he nodded.

Spike tugged at Willow’s arm. “Let’s go, Red. Sooner begun is sooner done.”

She nodded. She didn’t seem surprised when Xander kissed Angel. Her eyes got wide, though, as Spike kissed Angel, and they just about popped out of her head when Xander kissed Spike. Xander had sort of neglected to fill her in on recent romantic developments. “Ooooh,” she said. Then her face split into a broad smile.

Xander and Spike each slung an arm around the other’s waist. “Are you positive it’ll be night when we get there?” Xander asked nervously.

“I’ll do my best. I have a blanket in my bag in case of emergency.”

“That’s not gonna help much if we appear at noon in the middle of a cornfield.”

“Alexander Lavelle Harris, if you don’t trust my powers, then—”

“Sorry! Sorry. I trust you, Willow.”

Spike snickered. “Lavelle?”

“Wouldn’t go there, William _Pratt_,” Xander responded.

“Please. Just get it over with,” Giles said.

Willow dug out her supernatural iPhone. She and Spike and Xander moved several yards away from the other men, their feet sinking slightly into the marshy ground that lay between the inn and the bay. Angel looked suddenly very far away, his body as straight and tense as a fencepost. Xander waved. And then they were gone.

  
[Chapter Twenty-One](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/174803.html) 

  
  



	21. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 21/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

Thanks to my wonderful, hard-working beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , I'll be posting 2 chapters a day from now on. That way we'll be finished before I go out of town again.

  


_   
**Madhouse (21 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cg713/)  
  
---  
  
 

 

 

 

**Twenty-One**

 

“Bloody hell! That was horrible, Red.” Xander might have agreed, but he was too busy retching into a leafless viburnum bush. Spike patted Xander’s back and tried not to make a face. His boy couldn’t help being human, could he?

Willow didn’t look very apologetic. “L-l-let’s go,” she said, and Spike realized both humans were shivering violently. He tended not to notice the cold very much—although he generally appreciated heat when he got it—but even he could tell the air was sharply frigid. In the black sky above them, every star shimmered like cut glass.

“Where to?” he asked, drawing his coat uselessly about himself.

Xander spat into a patch of gray snow and stood. “Over there,” he said, pointing at a house that was probably the same age as Spike, only considerably more covered in wooden gew-gaws. “Good aim, Willow.”

Together they walked up the pavement. Xander opened the small white gate and they filed through, then trooped up the front steps.

“What if they’re asleep?” Xander said. “It might be kinda late for them.”

Willow shrugged. “Then we’ll wake them up. They’ll deal.” She rang the bell.

It was ages before the door creaked open, and Spike was alarmed to see Xander’s lips turning blue. A busty middle-aged woman in a frowzy dressing gown stuck her head out. “Mr. and Mrs. Harris? Whatever are you doing here at such a time of night? And dressed like that?”

“C-c-can we come in, p-p-please, Mrs. Baumann?”

The woman frowned at them, but stepped aside. Xander and Willow entered easily, of course, but Spike was stopped at the threshold. Luckily, Xander noticed. “Um, Mrs. Baumann? Can our friend come in, too? His name is, um, Mr. Pratt.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want him to catch his death out there. He looks so pale already. Come in at once, Mr. Pratt!”

Spike managed not to make a face at the name. Mrs. Baumann led them into a small, crowded parlor. “I’ll go let the ladies know you’re here. And I’ll put on the kettle.”

After she’d bustled away, Spike asked, “Housekeeper?”

“Yeah,” Xander said. His violent shivering had stopped, but he was looking wistfully at the empty fireplace. Upstairs, Spike could make out voices and footsteps, but he didn’t pay them much attention. Instead, he wandered around the room, picking up knickknacks and putting them back down again.

Xander had warned him, but Spike still couldn’t quite hide a look of shock when the women of the house appeared. They were elderly, one with her wig askew and both looking like people unexpectedly roused from sound sleep, but they were unmistakable.

Xander did the introductions. “Mrs. Hull, Mrs. Carlson, this is William Pratt. He goes by Spike. He’s…a very good friend. Spike, Mrs. Hull and Mrs. Carlson.”

Mrs. Hull gasped and nearly fell backwards. “What is it, Thelma?” asked Mrs. Carlson. But Mrs. Hull grabbed her companion’s hand and dragged her away. Willow and Xander looked at each other, puzzled, while Spike tried unsuccessfully to decipher the women’s hushed whispers.

A few moments later, the old ladies came back. Mrs. Carlson marched up to Spike and looked him up and down, then turned to Xander. “Xander, are you aware that your friend is a vampire?”

“Um, yeah. I am. But how did you know?”

“Mrs. Hull occasionally has small visions about people. Just little insights into their character. It’s a gift. It’s why she knew to trust you. And how she saw what he is.”

Spike didn’t like being spoken about this way, as if he were some sort of rabid dog. He was immensely gratified when Xander came up close and held him tight with one arm. “Then let me tell you the whole truth, I guess,” Xander said. “Spike’s a vamp. He’s a good one, though. He has a soul, which he fought for himself. He’s saved the world. And…I love him. Not brotherly love, either. I mean, he’s mine. My partner. My lover.” Xander took a deep breath.

Mrs. Carlson looked back and forth between the three of them. “And Willow?”

“Not my wife. She’s been my best friend since I was five.”

“And I’m gay, too!” Willow added perkily.

“Y-you’re happy?” Mrs. Hull asked.

“She means she’s a lesbian,” Spike explained impatiently. “Although there was a bloke once, that wolf boy, so perhaps she just fancies some variety.”

Willow frowned at him. “Nope. Gay now.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Hull said, and she sat down rather heavily on an overstuffed chair. “This is all…w-we hadn’t expected….”

Xander let go of Spike to go to her side. “I know. I’m really sorry. It’s just…we’re kind of stuck now, and we need some help. And you’re our only friends here.”

Mrs. Carlson said, “Begin by telling us the truth—the entire truth—and then we can discuss it.”

“It’s a long story. And some of it’s even stranger than friendly gay vampires.”

“I’d be interested to hear it. We have too little excitement in our lives these days.”

Just then, Mrs. Baumann bustled in with a tray, which she set on a small side table. There was a steaming teapot and five delicate china cups, a silver sugar bowl, and a matching pitcher of cream. There was also a small plate piled high with biscuits. Spike inhaled the scent of Darjeeling and couldn’t help but smile a bit. Tea always seemed to help.

Soon Mrs. Carlson had them all arranged on chairs, each with a cup in hand. She seemed pleased that Spike drank something besides blood. The tea was hot and delicious, and even Xander, who was more of a coffee man, slurped some down.

“Well? Tell us your tale,” Mrs. Carlson said. Spike decided he liked her.

They told it. Xander did the bulk of the speaking, although sometimes Willow chimed in, and Spike added a detail now and then. Mrs. Hull and Mrs. Carlson asked questions occasionally, but mostly they listened, and they seemed to believe every incredible word. Mrs. Baumann came by periodically with refills, and although it was nearly dawn by the time they were finished, the old ladies looked fairly bright and sprightly.

“W-why did you come back?” Mrs. Hull asked when the story was nearly done. She’d cried when Xander had told them that Spike had been imprisoned in the asylum, and Xander had clutched Spike’s hand very hard.

“We need to fetch something back with us,” Spike said. “Something that might finally help us defeat our enemies.”

“What?”

Spike clenched his jaw. “Dr. Giles.”

“B-but—”

Mrs. Carlson interrupted her companion. “Thelma. These people have come here from another world and they look exhausted. And I think the vampire’s going to erupt into flames when the sun comes through those lace curtains. Let’s allow them some sleep, shall we? We can solve this problem later.”

Mrs. Hull stood and wiped imaginary crumbs from her green dressing gown. “O-of course. I’m sorry.”

At the ladies’ insistence, they all went up the wide stairs. Apparently the housekeeper had prepared rooms while they were talking, and first they showed Willow to a small bedroom with a white canopy bed and a white vanity and stool in one corner. “Do you need a n-nightgown, dear?” Mrs. Hull asked.

Willow shook her head and lifted her bag a little. “I came prepared.”

“Well, pleasant dreams.”

Just before they all filed out of the room, Spike heard Mrs. Carlson whisper to Willow, “We’re happy too, you know.”

With small smiles, the ladies showed Spike and Xander their room next. “This was Mr. Carlson’s room,” Mrs. Carlson said. “I never cared for it much. I prefer a room overlooking the garden. But the bed is comfortable and the draperies are heavy.”

Xander said, “Thanks. I really appreciate you doing this for us.”

“It’s nice to have a houseful again. And a vampire! Who would have thought? Now, you boys sleep well. If you need anything, our room is just down the hall. These old walls are fairly noise-proof, by the way.”

“Anna!” Mrs. Hull exclaimed, and Xander blushed a bit, but Spike and Mrs. Carlson laughed.

When they’d left, Xander held Spike’s shoulders. “They took that pretty well, all things considered.”

“I like them. But then I always did like Glinda and your demon bint.”

“Yeah? I remember exactly how much you liked Anya.”

“Oi! You left her, remember? She and I, we were both lonely.”

Xander kissed Spike’s cheek. “I know.” And then he yawned so hugely Spike could nearly see his toes through his mouth.

“Let’s sleep, Xan.”

But they didn’t, at least not right away. Oh, they undressed quickly enough, and Xander used the en suite loo, but when they piled into the enormous mahogany bed, they shagged. No, they made love, slowly and sweetly, two bodies sharing the same good ache. Only when they were spent and sticky did they wrap their arms around each other. Just before he fell asleep, Spike thought that the brilliance of these moments nearly made up for the devastation of his six years in this dimension.

 

***

 

One of the good things about these big old heaps was that they weren’t meant to be very bright and airy. So Spike had little trouble safely moving about the place when he awoke in early afternoon. Xander was still snoring softly into his pillow, so Spike gently kissed his boy’s empty eyelid and slipped out of bed and got dressed.

He found the ladies of the house in the music room. It had big windows so he couldn’t enter. Instead, he stood in the doorway and listened to Mrs. Carlson pick her way clumsily through a piece by Rimsky-Korsakov. Mrs. Hull sat nearby, nodding her head in tempo and reading from a book with a green dust jacket. When the piece was finished, Mrs. Carlson turned to look at Spike. “I never have been able to play worth a damn.”

“The missus seems to fancy it.”

Mrs. Carlson snorted. “She’s tone deaf. And I never complain about her cooking, so we’re even.”

“Sounds like a good match.”

They both gave him long looks. Finally, Mrs. Carlson said, “We’re both very fond of Xander, you know. He’s a good boy. If someone were to do him harm, we would not be pleased.”

“Are you asking me what my intentions are, Mrs. Carlson?”

“I suppose I am.”

“I love him. Even before the soul, when I loved, I loved hard. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my boy. He’s— Well, Angel, my grandsire, is the air I breathe, and Xander is my beating heart. Wouldn’t want to exist without them.”

The ladies nodded, satisfied. Mrs. Carlson stood. “Would you like to see the library, Spike?”

Spike certainly did, so she took him to the room next door—and it was a beauty. Dark oak shelving from floor to ceiling, all of it crammed with books. A fireplace with an ornate mantel was built into one corner; it contained a roaring fire. Two comfortable-looking armchairs were arranged in front of it on a thick red carpet, and a small table with a decanter and glass were nearby. “Help yourself to the whiskey. It was Mr. Carlson’s. Mrs. Hull and I don’t drink hard liquor. I suppose it’s still good, isn’t it?”

“I expect so.”

“The library was my husband’s, too. He had his good points, and this was one of them. He always could appreciate a good book. Feel free to browse.”

“Cheers.”

She left, and he spent a happy time perusing the titles. Some were classics. Some he hadn’t seen in decades. And some he’d never heard of before. Had Edith Wharton written a book called _The Empty Room_ in his world? Spike chose an armful and took them over by the fire. He sat in a chair, put his feet up on a stool, and poured himself a glass of what turned out to be some very nice whiskey indeed. And then, feeling ridiculously like some minor lord of the manor, he spent several hours contentedly reading.

 

***

 

It must have been Mrs. Carlson who cooked dinner, or perhaps Mrs. Baumann. In any case, it smelled nice, and Xander and Willow certainly dug in appreciatively. It occurred to Spike that it had probably been ages since Xander ate a real home-cooked meal—and Angel might have had his last one in the eighteenth century—so he resolved to do something about it when this mess was sorted. Humans shouldn’t get all their food in paper wrappers sporting pictures of clowns.

Mrs. Baumann had brought Spike a steak so rare he could nearly hear it moo, and to be polite he ate a little of it. He remembered the food Xander had provided after rescuing him from the asylum, all the lovely fruits and fresh bread and sticky sweets that Xander had fed him bit by bit with his own hands, and how brilliant it had tasted even in Spike’s addled state, and the innocent happiness he’d had in licking Xander’s fingers clean. Food tasted flat to him now, like eating cardboard, and even blood lacked the flavor of what Xander had given him. Most blood, that was. Xander’s own blood had been delicious because it tasted like _his_ boy_, _and because Spike knew it had been freely given, out of love. When they got back, Spike meant to try some of Angel’s, and see how the flavor compared to before, when Angel was a vampire.

“Are you all w-well rested?” Mrs. Hull asked as the dishes were being cleared.

“Yes, thank you,” said Willow. “It’s really nice of you, all you’ve done for us.”

Mrs. Hull patted Willow’s hand. “Our pleasure, dear.”

And Mrs. Carlson added, “You’ve certainly brought excitement into some old ladies’ lives. It’s been far too long since anything interesting happened to us. And demons and witches and other worlds! Who would have imagined?”

“W-we’re thinking of writing a novel about it all. When everything’s settled, of course. Is that all right with you?”

Xander grinned. “As long as the fictional version of me is dashingly handsome. And witty—don’t forget witty.”

Mrs. Baumann came back into the dining room. She had coffee for Mrs. Carlson and Xander, and tea for the rest, and thick slabs of chocolate cake for everyone except Spike. Spike wondered whether her employers had told her what he was, or had simply said he had a special diet. As if she was reading his thoughts, Mrs. Hull said, “S-S-Spike? Are you hungry? We could call the butcher, or will only human b-blood do?”

“Animal’s fine, Missus, but I’m all right. I can easily skip a few days.”

Mrs. Hull nodded and they all ate, except for Spike, who sipped at his Earl Grey and admired the Spode china pattern.

Finally, Willow put down her fork. “So after we left last time, we read in the papers that you sicced the authorities on Giles and the rest.”

Mrs. Carlson had a wicked smile that Spike quite admired. “We did. I still have a few contacts from the old days, you know, reporters who are hungry for a sensational story. That awful doctor and many of his employees were arrested.”

Spike had a sudden but vivid mental image of Reynolds and Dunham, and the ghost of the feeling of the Doctor’s soft hand on his scrotum. He shuddered and the teacup he was holding began to shake. Xander wordlessly helped him set the cup down, then took Spike’s hand in his and squeezed.

“What’s happened to the patients?” Spike asked. There had been so many of them, so much limitless misery.

But Mrs. Hull beamed. “We-we shut down the asylum! Some of the patients have been taken in by families. Many of them weren’t very ill, you know. They…they just needed someone to look after them. Our committee checks in on them, makes sure they’re being treated well. The others, well, we’ve built some cottages. Nice little houses on the grounds of the old building. There are eight patients to each cottage, and one or two caretakers who live with them. We’ve found some jobs for people who need them, and it’s…it’s almost like they have a family.”

Mrs. Carlson frowned and looked at Spike. “I am sorry we didn’t do anything earlier. We should have suspected. It was wrong of us—wrong of the whole town—not to at least check the conditions in that place.”

“People see what they want to, I expect. They’re blind to unpleasantness that doesn’t concern them directly.”

Xander nodded his agreement. He knew. He’d seen plenty of willful blindness in Sunnydale.

Willow said, “So…Dr. Giles. Is he in jail?”

Their hostesses looked unhappy. “No,” Mrs. Carlson said. “They haven’t even tried him yet, and I’m not sure they’re going to. He testified against the other men and made it sound as if the…atrocities were all their fault. They’ve all been sent to the prison at Joliet. But Dr. Giles has some political connections. Judge Rayne is a close friend of his.”

“Where is he?” Spike asked, his voice barely more than a growl.

“At his house,” Mrs. Hull said. “Th-the big white one on the other side of Maple Street.”

Spike reflexively looked over his shoulder, as if the man might be sneaking up on him this very minute. Xander held his hand so tightly that it hurt, and Spike was very grateful for it.

Xander smiled gamely. “Well, that’s good, then. Handy. ‘Cause it means we don’t have to spring the bastard out of jail. Hell, we don’t even have to find a car. And best of all, any remaining qualms I might have had about this whole thing have just disappeared.”

Spike gnawed at his lip a moment, and then stood. “Can we…. Let’s go get him now, yeah? The waiting….”

Xander immediately stood as well. “Yeah. Good plan.”

“B-but are you certain…. You haven’t really planned at all, have you?” Mrs. Hull looked genuinely distressed.

Spike shook his head. “Never been much for schemes, really. Well, I’ve made them sometimes, but don’t always have the patience to follow through all that well.”

“And I’m pretty much with Spike on that. We’re sorta the go-in-swinging-and-hope-it-works kind of guys.” Xander’s mouth was quirked in a small smile and Spike wondered if he, too, was remembering the bloke with the magic jacket.

The women stood as well. Mrs. Baumann was sent to collect their coats and Willow’s bag, and the rest of them filed into the parlor.

“I wish there was some way we could thank you—” Xander began.

Mrs. Carlson interrupted him. “Don’t be silly! You did all that work on this house, and we’ve had a little adventure, and now we have material for a book. That’s plenty.”

The housekeeper appeared with their things and the three of them donned their coats. There was a small round of hugging that reminded Spike of the scene in the bloody _Wizard of Oz_, and then they were stepping outside.

The cold was even more bitter than the night before. It cut through Spike’s duster like a knife, and Xander’s teeth started chattering at once. They made their way down the pavement at a very fast walk, their footsteps echoing into the night.

The house now in front of them had once been a fine one. Xander clicked his tongue at its obvious fall into disrepair. It wasn’t exactly collapsing, but it was clear that it had been awhile since anyone had lavished time and attention on the thing. The paint was peeling as if the house were leprous, some of the shutters hung askew, and the porch stairs were badly cracked and warped.

“You’re not going to be able to get inside unless he invites you,” Xander said.

“Cheers, Professor Obvious.”

Xander hit him in the arm. “So we’re going to have to lure him out—probably not too easy—or force him to let you in.”

Spike huffed. “Just bloody _do _it already.”

Willow stomped up the stairs and they followed her. She pounded firmly on the front door. The porch light went on, and Spike ducked off to the side so he wouldn’t be seen right away. Xander and Willow shivered, waiting for the door to open.

“You!” was the first thing the Doctor said when he saw them. Spike’s knees went weak at the sound of him, and he swore silently at himself. _You’re stronger than he is_, he reminded himself. _ You’re a bloody demon_.

“Doctor Giles,” Xander said in a voice as icy as the air.

“What do you mean coming here after everything you did! All my work, my reputation, ruined!”

“You were ruined long before I showed up, asshole. Speaking of which, you’d better be pretty grateful I’m not tearing you a new one right now.”

“Why—why you—”

“Rupert? What on earth is going on?”

Spike didn’t recognize the new voice, but he could see the twin looks of surprise on Xander’s and Willow’s faces.

“Ethan, I’d like you to ring the police at once. This is the person who struck me, and who absconded with that…dangerous patient. I don’t know the whore at his side.”

“Whore!” Willow said. “Why, you misogynistic, evil _jerk_! You’re nothing at all like the real Giles. The real Giles would…would whoop your butt in three seconds flat!”

“Rupert?” the other man asked.

“The police, Ethan.”

The Doctor started to shut the door. Without truly thinking about what he was going to do, Spike stepped out of the shadows and into full view of the men in the doorway. Spike steeled himself to look at the Doctor, to display through his menacing glare every bit of hatred he had for the man. The Doctor was wearing gray trousers and a white shirt and a gray tie. His glasses were perched on his nose. He looked very ordinary.

“You!” the Doctor said again, this time even louder. “What are you—how did—”

“Your nasty little experiment didn’t take, wanker.”

“No! This is quite impossible. It’s some sort of trick.”

Spike snarled at him. “No trick here, Doctor.”

The Doctor stepped backward. The other man—a tall, thin bloke about the same age as Giles—looked on with his mouth hanging open. “Ethan!” said the Doctor.

And then several things happened so quickly that even Spike could hardly track them. Ethan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pistol. Giles took another step back into his house. Willow dropped her bag. Xander surged forward. Ethan took aim. Spike vamped out—he vaguely noted the Doctor’s high-pitched scream at that—and lunged, promptly bouncing off the invisible barrier at the threshold. The gun went off; it sounded as loud as a bomb blast. Someone yelled. Xander fell onto the Doctor and they both toppled to the ground; as Ethan again pointed the gun, Willow said something in a harsh-sounding language and the pistol flew out of Ethan’s hand. It bounced off the floor of the foyer and went off, the bullet ricocheting off a brass hat stand and shattering the window beside the door. Spike heard the bullet whiz through the air and felt it slam into his stomach. He ignored it; it wasn’t important now.

As Spike threw himself uselessly against the barrier, Xander managed to scramble to his feet. He grabbed the Doctor’s feet and dragged him back, towards the door. The Doctor tried to kick himself free and his hands scrabbled at the carpet. As soon as a single foot extended beyond the doorway, Spike snatched it and, with one heave, hauled both Xander and the Doctor out onto the porch. “Now, Red!” he yelled.

The world went inside out.

  
[Chapter Twenty-Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/175049.html)

 

  



	22. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 22/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

Thanks to my wonderful, hard-working beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , I'll be posting 2 chapters a day from now on. That way we'll be finished before I go out of town again.

  


_   
**Madhouse (22 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ch0zd/)  
  
---  
  
**Twenty-two**

  
   


Usually, it was the nausea that got to him. Because changing worlds was like riding the Viper at Magic Mountain shortly after eating a corn dog, a slice of pepperoni pizza, and some nachos. But now the nausea was almost an old friend, at least compared to the horrible pain in his shoulder, which felt like someone was trying to tear it apart with knives made of broken glass. It felt like a mini-Hiroshima. It felt like…like he’d been shot. Fuck.

He seemed to be flat on his back, somewhere damp and squishy. With more than a little trepidation, he cracked open his eye. Spike was kneeling over him, looking as scared as Xander had ever seen him. Spike’s shirt was wet and sticking to his body and, as Spike shifted a bit, Xander saw why: there was a gory wound the size of a quarter in Spike’s stomach.

“Spike!” Xander said, and tried to sit up. That was a mistake. Something moved in his shoulder in a way nothing ever should, fresh flames of pain shot through Xander’s arm and chest, and his vision went gray.

“Don’t move!” Spike said, pressing firmly on an uninjured portion of Xander’s chest. “You’ve been shot.”

“Kinda figured that out. You, too.” Xander felt lightheaded, as if he might float right off the ground, and his hands tingled.

Spike didn’t even glance at his own wound. “I’ll mend. Stay _still_, pet.”

“Is Will okay?” As he asked, Xander realized that some sort of commotion was going on off to the side, and he rolled his head to see. There was Angel and Giles and—huh, another Giles—and they were wrestling, and you didn’t see that every day. One of the Gileses—what exactly was the correct plural?—was bellowing like a wounded bull, and Angel was mostly sort of sitting on him, while the other Giles was trying to chain up his doppelganger with a couple pairs of handcuffs. Willow stood nearby, looking pretty shaky and green, obviously not quite able to decide who needed assistance most.

Spike made the decision for her. “Red! A bit of help here!”

Willow tottered over and gasped when she saw Xander. “Oh, goddess! Xan!”

“Do your mojo, witch. Quickly! He’s in shock and he’s bleeding…. His pulse…. Please!” Spike’s voice broke.

Willow knelt and began muttering to herself. “I don’t have anything handy, no herbs, no…not much juice after the zapping…goddess, _think_ Rosenberg! What can I….?”

Her voice grew far away, tinny, like someone on a bad loudspeaker. Like the announcers at the train stations they’d stopped at on the _Super Chief_, who sounded like the announcers in train stations everywhere and everywhen, unintelligible whatever the language and there was this one time when he was in Krakow and he was trying to get to Lodz, but he’d misunderstood the announcer because, hey, who knew learning Polish would have eventually come in handy? And he’d ended up on the train to Lutsk instead and that sucked because who wanted to go to Lutsk? Especially not when there was a new baby Slayer in Lodz and now he couldn’t hear Willow at all and Spike? Angel? Where were they? Spike! Angel!

 

***

 

A hand was brushing across his forehead, big and warm and solid. Smooth, as if its owner never did much physical labor. It was comforting, and Xander groggily wished it could envelop his entire body and he could curl up inside it, safe.

Another hand was stroking his bicep. Up and down, up and down, with just enough pressure to be pleasant. This hand was also smooth, but it was smaller, more slender, with long clever fingers that could play him like an instrument.

Xander moaned and opened his eye.

“Don’t bloody move!” Spike yelled at him at once.

Xander didn’t want to move. He was comfortable. Content. He couldn’t imagine why he’d consider moving. But he was confused over Spike’s alarm, until the memory of the recent past seeped back into his consciousness. Oh.

“I’ve been shot before,” he said.

“It’s a stupid sodding habit, berk,” Spike said.

“Yeah.” But the agony was gone, leaving in its place only the dull ache of mending bones and the maddening itch of healing muscle and skin. “But…what?” He tried to twist his head to see, but Angel stopped him by cupping his palm around Xander’s chin.

“If you don’t stop moving, we’re going to have Willow put a freeze spell on you,” Angel said. “Let yourself finish healing.”

So Xander stopped his feeble struggles. “What’s going on?”

Spike kissed him, cool, soft lips against Xander’s temple. Better than a damp washcloth by far. “You were shot. Remember?”

“Yeah. Ethan Rayne. But—oh! You were shot, too!”

“Already gone,” Spike said. He sat up and lifted his shirt hem to reveal a stomach as white and perfect as ever.

“Lucky vamp.”

“It does have its advantages. Your witch brought us back here to Inverness, and she had just enough juice left in her to hocus-pocus you back together. You just have to relax and let the enchantment finish its job.”

Now Xander recognized where they were: back in the bedroom they’d shared at the inn. The radiator was still clanking. He licked his lips, which felt dry as sandpaper. Like magic, Angel stuck a straw in his mouth. The water tasted better than anything, ever. “Giles?” Xander asked when he was a little more hydrated.

“Our Giles has taken turns fussing over you. The doctor is trussed up nicely in the cupboard, and likely not very pleased about it.” Spike looked far from unhappy to deliver that news.

“He’s not, um, possessed yet?”

“No,” Angel said. “Willow wants to help, but she needs to recharge. And anyway, we thought you might want to be there, after…well, we thought you might.”

Xander almost nodded, but caught himself. “I wanna see that fucker fried.”

Spike grinned. “That’s my boy.”

“That’s _our_ boy,” Angel corrected. They were the nicest three words Xander had ever heard.

 

***

 

Magic was a fast fixer. Within two hours, Xander was sitting up and Angel was splitting a carton of Cherry Garcia with him, alternating spoonfuls between them as Xander gaped his mouth like a baby bird. Spike watched them and shook his head. “You two keep this up and there won’t be any room left for me on the bed.”

Xander grinned. “Then we’ll have to get a bigger bed.”

An hour after that, Xander walked into the little living room, slowly, the way Tony used to walk when he got home from work, before he’d made his way to the fridge and the waiting case of Bud. Xander’s arm was bound to his torso by a sling, and Spike had hung one of the boy's flannel shirts over Xander’s shoulders to help keep him warm. Spike and Angel walked on either side of him like an honor guard, both of them obviously ready to catch him if he stumbled.

Willow and Giles were sitting in the living room. She had been watching something on TV and he had a book in his lap. They both looked up as Xander and the others entered. “Xander!” Giles said. “You shouldn’t be up so soon. Spike, Angel, what were you thinking?”

Angel and Spike actually looked abashed, which was a new thing, so Xander stepped in quickly. “It’s fine, Giles. This time I didn’t even lose any significant body parts. Besides, Willow’s very good. She could’ve fixed Humpty Dumpty.”

Giles looked at Willow. “Do you think—”

“He should be all right with the sling. He should probably sit down, though.”

“Hey! He’s right here and his hearing is fine.” With his lovers still flanking him, Xander made his way to the couch. Willow got up so the three of them would fit, and Xander felt a little guilty about that, but he was too happy to be sitting between Spike and Angel to say anything. Gingerly, he leaned back against the cushions. Angel and Spike settled themselves very close but were careful not to jostle his arm.

“So did you guys fill Giles in on what happened?”

“They did indeed. Xander, what were you thinking, rushing in like that when there was a gun involved?”

Xander tried to shrug but it hurt a little. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get Giles—evil sadistic Giles—and I didn’t want Spike or Willow to get shot, and we couldn’t just hang around waiting for the cops to show up.”

“You never have known when to stay away, have you?” Spike said, but there was fondness in his voice.

“My self-preservation gene is obviously badly defective.”

“Well, if it wasn’t, none of us would be here,” Angel said.

Xander flashed him a smile, then turned back to the magicmakers. “When are you gonna do it? ‘Cause it’s kinda creeping me out, thinking of not-Giles all chained up in the closet, and isn’t he gonna get messy after a while?”

“The freeze spell stops most biological processes,” Willow said. “He’s conscious, though.” And Xander thought he saw a flash of black in her eyes when she said it, and he shivered.

“I’m less than pleased to have my…counterpart here as well, Xander. As soon as it’s dark we’ll travel to a slightly less-populated location and perform the spells.”

Inverness wasn’t exactly Midtown Manhattan, so Xander wasn’t sure where slightly less populated might be. But he leaned against Angel, who was on his uninjured side, and rested his bare foot atop Spike’s, and they all waited anxiously for the sun to set.

As soon as it did, a fog settled in so thick you could barely see across the parking lot. It was a little spooky, Xander thought, but maybe that suited their plans well. Angel and Spike carried Dr. Giles out to the car. The doctor’s face had a look of fury fixed on it and his eyes glared murderously at them all, but his wrists and ankles were tightly bound and he clearly couldn’t move at all. It was very strange to see the familiar Giles standing near the bad one, and Xander realized that the good one was carefully not looking at the other. Xander didn’t blame him. He remembered how strange it was when he’d been split by Toth; but at least neither half of him had been sinister.

Spike and Angel dumped the doctor in the Galaxie’s trunk—none too gently—and slammed the lid shut. They all piled into the car, Giles behind the wheel with Willow next to him, and Xander sandwiched between his lovers in the back.

The car bumped and jostled through a gray so complete that the rest of the world might as well have disappeared. Xander leaned his head against Angel’s shoulder again. His own shoulder was feeling much better, and he was hoping he’d be able to take the sling off soon because it was a pain in the ass. For one thing, he still couldn't wear a shirt properly and it was cold, even with the car’s heater going full blast and his jacket draped over him like a cape.

Willow and Giles were talking loudly about the procedures they’d be doing, arguing over details a little. Very quietly, so that only those in the back seat could hear, Spike said, “This could all go pear-shaped, mind you.”

“I take it that’s a bad thing?” Xander said.

“One of us could get hurt…or worse.” It was hard to see well in the dim light, but Xander thought that Spike looked very nervous. “I want to know…. If you’re dying, if there’s no other hope….” He paused for a moment. “I want to turn you.”

Honestly, Xander wasn’t surprised this subject had come up, although maybe he hadn’t expected it quite so soon. After all, he and Angel would age, and Spike wouldn’t. And Xander, just hours earlier—or decades, depending how you looked at it—had come very close to death. Again. But he didn’t want to have this talk, not now. Or, well, ever. He sighed. “Would you even want that, Spike? I mean, I thought if you get turned, the person you were goes away.”

“No, you know that’s a load of rubbish. Lies perpetrated by Watchers to make Slayers feel better about staking their friends. The man is still there, Xander. He just loses his inhibitions and gains new appetites.”

Xander tried very hard not to think of Jesse.

Spike stroked the side of Xander’s face. “No worries. I’m certain your witch could stick your soul on good and tight, if it came to it. And you’d be without the bloody baggage Liam and I have to drag with us. You’d regain your soul before you ever harmed anyone.”

“This sounds like a sales talk, Spike.”

Spike sighed. “I couldn’t bear…. I just _got_ you. Don’t fancy losing you.”

“Don’t do it, William. Not to me,” Angel said. “Xander, what he’s saying, it’s absolutely true. So make your own decision. But for me, I’ve spent enough years as a vampire. I want to finish up human.”

Spike looked like he might argue, then nodded gravely. Angel reached across Xander to clasp Spike’s arm in what was somehow one of the most intimate moments Xander had seen between them. And that was saying a lot.

Spike looked at Xander, straight into his one eye, Spike’s entire face one big question mark. Xander wasn’t sure how he was going to answer until the words left his mouth. “Do it,” he said. Spike exhaled hugely. “But,” Xander added, “only if you’re really positive. No jumping the gun, no premature sirings.”

“I know death when I see it, pet. Seen it enough times, haven’t I?”

Xander nodded. He was going to have to trust Spike on this. And trust him he did.

 

***

 

Wherever they were, it might as well have been the moon, only with better air. The fog was a little less dense, meaning Xander could actually see beyond the length of his arms, but the mist still lay heavily over him like another coat, and the bare skin of his chest and stomach was soon damp, as if he had a fever. Water was condensing in his hair, too, and dripping into his eye, and he had only one free hand—with only two fingers and a thumb—to wipe it away.

The ground here was muddy, covered with short, scrubby weeds. Xander could hear the ocean crashing against nearby rocks and smell the brine through the dampness of the air. He thought that it would be hard to tell now where land and air and sea each ended; their boundaries were all muddled together like smears of paint.

On the ground, two small electric lanterns cast sickly halos into the mist. Dr. Giles was seated between them, his wrists and ankles still bound. Willow had lifted the freeze spell, and he turned his head this way and that to glare at his captors as they stood around him in a circle. “I don’t know what kind of trick you’re playing—” he began.

“Told you before. No trick,” Spike said.

“You’ve given me some kind of drugs. What are you trying to do to me?”

Giles—their Giles—took a deep breath and moved in closer. He crouched down, maybe so his evil twin could get a good look at him without his glasses on. The glasses themselves had gone missing at some point during the kidnapping. “I’ve good reason to know what you’re thinking now, and you don’t truly believe you’re drugged. You’re afraid and uncertain and looking for logical explanations, but deep down you know there aren’t any.” His voice was low and chilling, and it occurred to Xander that former librarian Giles had it in him to be every bit as scary as former asylum director Giles.

“You people are insane!”

Giles laughed. “And you would know, wouldn’t you?” He stood and brushed off his trousers and backed away.

The doctor still twisted and turned like a fish on a hook, and Xander didn’t feel the tiniest bit guilty about it, because he remembered Spike, mangled and mutilated, and the blank hopelessness on the faces of the other inmates. In fact, Xander smiled maliciously when the doctor next looked at him. “You hurt Spike, and he’s a hero and brave and smart, and I love him. You hurt the wrong guy. I’ll bet you even knew he wasn’t crazy. Because he never was—at least not since you’ve met him—and he really is a vampire, as you’ve seen for yourself.” Spike obliged him by shifting his face and flashing his fangs, the world’s most effective visual aid.

The doctor tried to scramble away, but it was hard to scramble with your arms chained behind you—something Xander knew from personal experience, actually—and anyway there was nowhere for him to go, with the five of them all around.

“So here’s what I want you to know,” Xander said. “I’ve met a lot of nasty things, and you’re right up there in the top ten. At least demons don’t usually pick on their own kind. I’m just a guy, but I’m in love with this vampire you hurt. And Angel—he’s the big guy looming over to your left—he used to be a vamp but isn’t anymore, and he loves Spike too, and me, and us him, and it’s all very vice-a-versa-y. Now, the cute little redhead? She’s a witch. A really strong one. She almost ended the world once when she was really pissed off, and another time she helped save it. She’s my BFF and she’s not someone I’d want to tick off. And the guy who looks like you, only not disgusting, _is_ you, actually, an alternate you, because you’ve just landed in an alternate world. But don’t get too comfy, because this is only a layover. You’re on your way to another place altogether, only you’ll be taking an evil lawyer entity as a hitchhiker with you. So, enjoy your trip.”

It was a long speech, and the doctor listened with his mouth hanging open. When Xander finally shut up, Spike kissed him roughly on the cheek, nearly nicking him with a fang. “Brilliant, love.”

“Deviants,” the doctor hissed.

Spike laughed at him. “That’s rich, coming from you.” Then he looked over at their Giles. “Enough with the nattering. Let’s finish this.”

Giles nodded curtly. He pulled some folded papers from his jacket pocket and opened them. Willow stood close, and together they began to read.

It was, predictably, in Latin, so Xander didn’t understand a word. Spike did, though, and he seemed to be listening attentively. Xander put his free arm around Spike’s waist and Angel slung one of his arms around Spike’s shoulder, and Spike leaned back slightly into their embrace, his face still demon-shaped. The doctor swore and yelled, but there was probably nobody for miles around. He tried twice to get to his feet, but both times Angel easily kicked him back onto his ass.

And then, as Giles and Willow continued intoning all the –iums and –araes, the hair on the back of Xander’s neck began to prickle and Spike growled low and menacingly. Xander felt like someone else was there, someone very large and threatening, but he couldn’t see anything and couldn’t hear anything but the ocean waves and his own little group. Still, the feeling grew more intense, and Xander saw that Angel was looking over his own shoulder, squinting into the fog.

Giles and Willow stopped their reading and looked up. As if on cue, the fog disappeared, whisked away like someone might yank a tablecloth off a table. The stars seemed almost blinding in comparison to the soft darkness of the mist, and Spike had to shield his eyes for a moment with his arm.

They were standing on a gentle slope. The Galaxie was parked several yards away along a narrow road; beyond that, the ground rose sharply and erupted into jagged granite. In the other direction the slope descended, gradually growing steeper until, maybe 50 yards way, it formed a sheer drop. Beneath that cliff, a long way down, was the ocean. A few wind-bent trees dotted the landscape here and there, but mostly there was brownish scrub just turning green from the winter rains. Xander could swear that off in the distance he saw several pairs of eyes flashing green at them, low to the ground. Spike growled again and the green disappeared.

The doctor had finally shut up. But as Giles and Willow began to speak again—this time, some sort of chant—he screamed shrilly and began to cry. “No, no, good Lord, no! Please, stop this! I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry. I won’t…I promise I won’t…please, for God’s sake….” His begging stopped making sense after that.

Xander should have felt sorry for the man. The doctor was human, after all, and Xander was supposed to be a Good Guy. But he remembered the cold glint that had been in the asylum director's eyes, and the way he’d turned Xander’s beautiful vampire—no matter that he was neither Xander’s nor a vampire at the time—into a terrified, mutilated wreck. He remembered the tears of the other patients after they had been raped in the orderlies’ lounge, and the way that such care had been taken to strip the inmates of every vestige of their humanity. He remembered Spike huddled in his own waste, rocking and blank-eyed.

Xander did not feel at all sorry for the doctor.

As the chanting grew louder, the doctor’s pleas became garbled sounds, then just choked cries as he fell on his side and began to twitch and jerk violently. That looming, unseen presence grew so heavy that Xander had a hard time drawing air into his lungs, and his skin felt covered with slime-secreting insects. He huddled tightly with his lovers as a wind suddenly spun around them, sending bits of grit and salt spray into his eye.

And then, all at once, everything was still.

The chanting had stopped. The invisible thing was gone. Or maybe not, because the doctor slowly returned to a sitting position, with more grace than Xander would have expected. He looked around at all of them again, only now he had a small, crafty smile on his face.

“What have you done? Oh, what have you done, foolish children?” he chuckled. “Angel, this scheme is even more ridiculous than your last, and now you’ve dragged more of your friends into it. And lovers as well, I see. Delightful!”

“You’ve already lost,” Angel said.

The doctor—or whatever he had become—laughed at that. “You people never fail to amuse me with your capacity for bravado and self-delusion. Still thinking of yourself as the great champion, aren’t you? How many lives have you really saved, Angel? Anywhere close to the number you’ve taken?”

Somehow, despite the cuffs, he managed to get to his feet. Xander had to stop himself from stepping backwards, and he could feel every muscle in Spike’s body, as tense as a spring. The doctor cocked his head at Spike and grinned more broadly. “Oh, Willy. Shall I tell your boyfriends how lovely it felt to sink inside you when you were all hot and alive? They likely already know what a slut you are, the way you got hard as you spread your legs for the orderlies. When you still could get hard, that is. Before I cut away those useless little bollocks of yours. I should have taken you home with me after I ruined your mind. I was tempted to. To keep you locked up in my cellar, a pretty little toy. Well, perhaps I’ll still have that opportunity.”

“Shut up,” Xander said.

“Ale_xan_der! A boy who puts up quite a front, with his clever mouth. But we all know that _you_ know the truth—every word your parents said about your worthlessness was correct. Even your own family couldn’t love you. Nobody can, except perhaps demons and other abominations. And that was even before you started losing bits of yourself.”

It wasn’t anything Xander hadn’t heard before, but somehow, coming from a Giles-faced mouth, it was horrible. Spike must have thought so too, because he snarled and tried to lunge forward, and only Xander’s and Angel’s grips kept him from attacking.

The doctor laughed merrily. And then, as easily as if they were made of paper, he broke the cuffs. Behind him, Giles and Willow made dismayed sounds. He turned and raised an eyebrow at them. “Amateurs,” he sighed. “Watchers, always with your petty magics and your pretty little girls. As if a few hundred more Slayers would make a difference against all the lovely evil in this world. As if the true evil comes from the demons they slay. Why, look how much harm came from just one single, ordinary man who happened to get himself an asylum to look after.”

The doctor said a word then, a single word in a language Xander didn’t recognize, and which didn’t sound human. The sound of it made his stomach lurch. As the doctor said the word, he pointed at Giles, and Giles instantly crumpled to the ground, where he lay very still. Willow took two steps back, her eyes very wide. This time it was Xander who had to be restrained.

The doctor turned back toward the three of them and rubbed his hands together. “There, now. That’s sorted. Are you ready to play, boys?”

And he leapt at them.

Now, Spike was very powerful, of course, and Xander knew what a strong fighter he was. Angel was human now, but he was a muscular human, and he still had a quarter of a millennium of experience. Xander, although human and relatively young, had held his own against a lot of really nasty monsters and a number of nasty humans as well. But Xander was currently minus the use of his good right arm, and the arm that worked was on his blind side. And the thing occupying the doctor’s body was very, very powerful.

Spike grabbed the doctor and latched onto his neck. With hardly any effort, the doctor tore Spike away from his throat and threw him so far he almost bounced against the car. The crunch of Spike’s body against the ground seemed very loud. The blood stopped spurting from the doctor’s neck instantly. Without pausing, he kicked Angel in the belly and grabbed Xander’s left arm, twisting it viciously until the bone gave and Xander screamed.

After that, Xander was pretty much out of the picture. In fact, all he could do was kneel on the ground and try to fight unconsciousness as the doctor gleefully tore his lovers apart. There was so much blood that Xander couldn’t even tell where they were wounded. But even though he was devastated, he was proud of them, because neither of them gave up; they just kept on attacking, no matter that they weren’t having much effect. They were going to go down as heroes, and together.

Xander couldn’t see Willow at all and he hoped she’d taken the opportunity to get far away, or faint, or do something that would allow her to escape the doctor’s attention.

The doctor did something just then that made Spike howl in agony. Xander stumbled to his feet and aimed for the melee, determined to get in one good blow before he went down, too. Every step jarred his broken bone almost unbearably, but he gritted his teeth and lowered his head and rammed himself into the doctor’s back. The doctor hadn’t seen him coming and he toppled over. Xander laughed wildly. He had always been told he had a hard head.

Angel and Spike were crawling now, still trying to get to the doctor, who stood and turned his attention to Xander. He smiled, displaying blood-flecked teeth. His tie had gone from gray to mostly red. “Silly boy,” he said and he reached for Xander’s neck, no doubt intending to break it.

And then the doctor screamed.

It wasn’t a human scream, not even remotely. Xander couldn’t imagine how that sound could come from a single set of lungs. Xander fell to his knees again, but so did the doctor. That allowed Xander to see Willow standing behind him, her hair whipping around her face, her eyes like spinning green lights. She had both hands outstretched and palms down, fingers pointing toward the doctor, who continued to shriek long after he should have been out of oxygen. As Xander watched, the doctor’s entire body glowed the same color as Willow’s eyes and his hair stood on end and his skin seemed to bubble.

Through some strange trick of perspective, Xander couldn’t tell whether the doctor shrank or got farther away, but he grew smaller and his screeching grew quieter, until there was a _pop_! And he was gone.

“That’ll teach you to underestimate a woman,” Willow said, right before Xander fainted.

  
[Chapter Twenty-Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/175445.html)

 

  
  



	23. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** 23/23  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

**Thanks to the necessity of my exercising my civic duty tomorrow (grumble grumble), and with deep gratitude to the incomparable ** [ ** ** ](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile) [ **silk_labyrinth** ](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) ** , I'm posting the final chapter now. It will be followed immediately by another post containing a brief epilogue and a bunch of notes on the story. **   


  


_   
**Madhouse (23 of 23)**   
_

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ck7xy/)  
  
---  
  
**Twenty-Three**

 

There was pain, Spike expected. He didn’t feel it, though, not now. He only wanted his limbs to cooperate so he could get to Angel’s side and Xander’s, but his legs were barely mobile—something badly wrong down there—and he had to pull himself along the ground on the one arm that wasn’t flopping uselessly, and it felt as if he were leaving bits of himself behind as he went.

Xander was closer. His pulse was rapid and a bit thready, and his breathing was too shallow, but he was alive and, Spike reckoned, he was probably going to stay that way. Spike tried not to notice the way Xander’s arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, and he did the best he could to arrange his boy in a more comfortable position.

Angel was a few yards away. It felt like miles. He was awake but badly injured. Spike couldn’t begin to catalog his injuries just then. Angel blinked at him. “Xander?” he croaked.

“He’ll be all right.”

Angel’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Liam? Liam!”

His eyes opened again, just a crack. “I’ll…I’ll live.”

His voice was very weak and Spike wasn’t sure whether he believed him, but then there wasn’t much he could do about it right now.

Willow knelt down beside them. Tears were streaming down her face, and she looked weak and a bit wobbly, but uninjured. “Spike?” she said.

“Can you get a mobile signal? Call an ambulance.”

“Already did. But…please. Giles.”

She tried to help him up, but his legs wouldn’t hold and she didn’t have the strength to carry him. In the end she mostly dragged him across the ground to Giles’s unmoving form.

“Is he…?” she sobbed.

The doctor must have damaged Giles’s heart. The Watcher’s face was ashy gray, his heartbeat was weak and arrhythmic, his breaths so slight as to be almost unnoticeable. “I can’t…it used up all my magic, and…I tried CPR, but….” Willow could barely catch her own breath through the crying.

“He won’t make it, love.” Even if the ambulance got there immediately, his heart sounded wrong, and Spike was certain there was nothing the paramedics would be able to do for him. Despite their past enmity, Spike felt grief coursing through him. This man had apologized for his past actions, and he’d fought bravely with them when he could easily have stayed on another continent. Most importantly, however, Giles was the closest Xander had to a father, and losing him would shatter Spike’s boy.

Spike rolled on his side, swallowing a groan of pain, and looked up at Willow. “Red?” he said quietly.

Her chin firmed. She inhaled deeply and exhaled. Then she nodded. “Do it.”

Hoping he wasn’t making an enormous mistake, Spike hitched himself closer to Giles and bit.

 

***

 

Spike had no idea what explanation Willow gave the paramedics when they arrived. He was in the boot of the Galaxie by then, safely hidden but bloody uncomfortable jammed in next to Giles’s corpse. Spike’s body was already mending—he’d had a good feed, at least—but he still hurt, and he was nearly frantic with worry over his lovers. He wasn’t too keen on Willow’s driving, either—normally she was all right, but she’d just seen her father-figure die and her oldest friend wounded, and then she’d dragged two dead men into the boot, all after using considerable juice to banish the doctor-thing. But Spike wasn’t currently up to driving himself, so he bounced about in the boot and stopped breathing so he wouldn’t inhale the exhaust fumes.

When they got to the inn, Willow’s work wasn’t yet done. She had to carry Giles into the room, and then come back for Spike. By then Spike’s legs could bear a bit of his weight, but she still nearly had to carry him as well. When she helped him onto the bed—he could wait until later to deal with his filthy, shredded clothing—she looked completely knackered.

“What do I do?” she asked, her eyes welling with fresh tears.

“Bring me the rest of the blood from the fridge,” he said. There was quite a bit left, enough to get him into good enough shape to be helpful. She did, and he drank it down quickly, trying not to grimace at the taste. Human, fresh from the vein, was so much nicer than cold, stale cow.

She sat on the mattress next to him and watched him feed. “We’re going to need more,” she said.

“Yeah. Loads. But not for two or three days. Where did you put him, love?”

“In the closet.”

“Good. We’ll need some heavy chains, but I can manage that tomorrow night. What will you need, and how soon will you be able to use your mojo again?”

“Um…I need a few things. An Orb, some aragonite crystals, some amber beads…. I could have the coven overnight the stuff from London, probably. And…I don’t know. I should be recharged in a couple days.”

“Right, then. The pouf’s credit card is in the side table there. Ring your friends and have them post your supplies. I’ll ring the hospital and check on Xander and Angel.”

“Okay. Should I…do you think I should tell Buffy?”

Spike had a vivid mental image of Buffy arriving, stake in hand, ready to slay him for sleeping with her ex and her old mate, and for what he did to Giles. “No. Let’s…let’s wait on that a bit, yeah?”

She nodded and sniffled.

“Once you’ve rung the coven, get some sleep, Red. You’re going to collapse.”

“Okay.”

She stood and began to walk away.

“Red?”

She stopped and looked back at him.

“You did it again tonight. You saved the world,” he said

“I don’t feel very…conquering heroish.”

“Get some rest.”

 

***

 

Xander was going to be all right, although he wouldn’t have use of his left arm for some time. The bones had been set and the doctors had given him something for the pain that made him babble worse than usual, but at least it was more or less happy babble, what little of it Spike could make sense of. They were going to keep him there for observation until the afternoon.

Angel was in surgery. Ruptured spleen, broken ribs, punctured lung, shattered legs…an entire catalog of things that could go wrong in a human. The prognosis was guarded. Spike longed to be at his side, but of course that was impossible.

Spike still felt as if he’d been run over by a truck, perhaps several times. He kicked off his boots and peeled off the remains of his clothing and, still filthy, crawled between the sheets. The bed smelled of his lovers and seemed very big and empty.

 

***

 

Xander rang at 2:45, waking Spike up. “Hey,” he said. “I take it you’re in one non-dusty piece?”

“More or less. You?”

“They’ve taken away the really good drugs and replaced them with the kind that are no fun and don’t work. But, hey, good news, the originally injured arm is more or less usable now. Kinda confused the docs and I don’t think they believed my story, but what can you do?”

“You need a ride home?”

“Maybe in an hour or two? I’m gonna stick with Angel for a while.”

“How is he?”

“Unconscious, mostly.”

Spike swallowed. “Is he…?”

“He’s gonna make it. He’s gonna be stuck here for a while, and then they’re talking rehab.”

Spike felt almost giddy with relief. At least until Xander asked the next question. “Spike? Is Giles…?”

“Yeah. About that, pet…. We’ll discuss that as soon as you’re home.”

 

***

 

“Are you sure we don’t need to bury him?” Xander asked.

“Nah. Not as long as you take care to keep him out of sunlight. And keep the maid away. Coming to consciousness underground…it’s not nice.” He shuddered from a memory over a hundred years old.

“Well, good,” Willow said. “It’ll save us some digging.”

Xander looked down at his splinted and be-slinged arm. “Yeah,” he said. “Are you sure those chains are strong enough?”

“Tested them myself.”

They all looked down at the corpse. It looked dry, of course, and rather pathetic all bound like it was. “You can still change your minds,” Spike said. “I could end it now, before he rises—”

“No,” Xander said. “Some guys make pretty good vamps. I bet he’s one of them.”

So the body was stuffed back in the cupboard and they sat in the living room. Xander picked at his pizza until Spike gave him the evil eye—they’d already had a talk about the need to keep up his strength. Xander sighed and took a few big bites.

“You know, we won,” Xander said with his mouth full. “Wolfram &amp; Hart are out of here. I wish I felt more enthusiastic about it.”

Spike patted his knee. “Give it time, pet. You’re preoccupied with other matters right now.”

“Yeah. Like what Buff’s gonna say. And Dawn.”

“Dawn will think the three of you are really hot,” Willow said with a small smile. “Buffy…probably not so much. I don’t know how they’re going to react to vampire Giles.”

“Well, I wager remaining on another continent for some time would be wise for some of us,” Spike said. After a few minutes of silence, during which he sipped at his new supply of blood, he said, “You don’t have to stay here tonight, mind you. I can manage one fledge myself.”

“We’ll stay,” Xander said firmly, and Willow nodded her agreement.

“He won’t…he won’t be himself. He’ll wake hungry and confused, and—”

“We’ll stay,” Xander repeated.

 

***

 

Spike had sired very few fledges. Even in his Big Bad days, he’d always reckoned there were enough demons in the world already, and he didn’t fancy the competition. Besides, he’d never found anyone who he thought worth making immortal. He’d turned several people when The First had been haunting him, but he didn’t recall that very well, and in any case, he hadn’t been there when most of them rose. He had witnessed other vampires when they first awoke, though, the prodigy of Darla and Angel and occasionally even Dru. None of them ever woke up happy.

Giles was no exception. As the rest of them looked on anxiously, his body twitched a few times, then spasmed. He opened his eyes, looked at them wildly, and roared. It was rather interesting, Spike thought, to see his face flicker between the familiar and the demonic. Willow and Xander, though, gasped and stepped back.

“I expect you’re a might peckish, mate,” Spike said. He held up a plastic tub of pig’s blood and peeled off the lid. Giles’s yellow eyes tracked him carefully, but when the scent of the stuff hit his nose, he snarled and struggled to free himself from his chains. “Uh-uh. There’ll be none of that, now. If you want some of this you’re going to be a good boy and stay very still.”

As Spike had known it would, the hunger controlled whatever rational mind Giles had right then. Giles stopped moving, and Spike knelt and held the container to his mouth. Giles slurped greedily at it; a good bit ran down his chin and onto his shirt. Spike clucked approvingly at him, feeling oddly paternal about the whole thing. When the container was empty, Willow fetched him another, and then another, until Giles had drunk nearly two gallons and was slumped against the wall.

“Let me go,” he said. His face was back to human, but still blood-smeared.

“Happy to, mate. As soon as Red pops your soul back into you. Should be tomorrow night.”

Giles growled, quite credibly, too. “Don’t want the bloody soul. You’ve done this to me, now let me go.”

“Nope,” Spike said, maybe a trifle smugly. “You should be thankful I didn’t put you in the bathtub. Bloody uncomfortable, that was. The carpeting’s much softer.”

The conversation pretty much went downhill from there, until Spike grew tired of it and jammed a ball gag into Giles’s mouth. Willow had had to drive all the way to San Francisco that afternoon to get it, along with a few of her ingredients, but Spike had known it would come in handy.

Willow and Xander both looked very pale, so Spike decided some diversion was in order. He scribbled out a fairly long poem in Latin—a rather poor pastiche of Catullus, but that didn’t matter—and asked her to translate it and read it to Giles. Then Spike grabbed Xander’s free hand and tugged him into the bedroom.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Spike dropped to his knees and began to unfasten his boy’s trousers.

“What are you doing?” Xander whispered, pushing Spike’s hands away.

Spike leered. “Should think that was rather obvious.”

“He’s got vamp hearing now. He’ll _hear_ us.” Xander’s whisper sounded a bit frantic that time.

“He’s heard us plenty already, and without the boost in reception.”

Xander opened his mouth, most likely to protest more, but Spike stopped that neatly by unzipping him and pulling out his cock. Not even Xander was capable of argument when his cock was nicely stuffed down a bloke’s throat.

Partway through the proceedings, Spike decided to join in, and he undid his own trousers and wanked as he sucked. When Xander gasped and then shot hot semen into Spike’s mouth, that was good enough for Spike, and he came as well. Xander looked down at him, appearing slightly dazed. “Oh,” he said.

Spike smirked.

 

***

 

It wasn’t fair, Spike thought. He’d had to drag himself to Africa—no mean feat in itself—and go through all those trials to win back his soul. All it took for Giles were a few pretty rocks and a sprinkling of herbs and some words in Latin, and there he was, souled as new. And the tosser had fought it the whole way, too, snarling and growling into his gag and pulling at the chains until he was bleeding. Now, though, he looked peaceful, if exhausted. He was breathing in and out, in and out, perhaps forgetting he didn’t need to.

Spike removed the gag and Giles gave him a grateful little nod, then licked the drool from the corner of his lips. “Will it remain?” he asked Willow.

She smiled. “Yep. Superglued and double-riveted. You can be as happy as you want, no problem.”

“Thank you, Willow.” Giles smiled wanly. Then he looked at Spike. “Perhaps you could unchain me now. Unless your bondage fantasies remain unfulfilled.”

Spike grinned. “Nah. I’ve Xander now, haven’t I? But before I undo the locks, I’d prefer to know whether you’re unhappy with me about…this.” He waved his hands vaguely at Giles.

“Honestly, I’m not certain how I feel about it yet. I expect that will take some time. But I’m not angry with you, Spike. In fact, I’m…grateful, I suppose.”

Xander squinted at him. “How do you feel, Giles?”

“Like myself, mostly. Only…more so. All those small complaints of advancing age are gone, and my sensory information…it’s quite extraordinary, really.”

“Wait until you get into a proper brawl, or you go for a run, or you—” Spike noticed Xander looking at him with a mixture of amusement and affection, and Spike ducked his head, unaccountably shy all of a sudden. He spent several minutes unfastening the chains, which he tossed aside. “Welcome to the family. Now Peaches is your great-grandsire.”

Giles’s slightly aghast expression made Spike smile wickedly.

“Giles, do you think, um, the Council is going to welcome you back?” Xander asked.

Giles stood and shrugged. “We shall see. It shall certainly be interesting.”

“’Cause you’re welcome to stay with us, you know. As long as you want.” Slightly belatedly, Xander looked to Spike for approval.

Spike nodded. “Could show you the ropes, if you fancy it. Staying out of the sun, that sort of thing.”

“Thank you. Thank you both. But I think I shall return to England. I’ve left a few loose ends there and I’ve always thought the climate better suited for vampires in any case. Besides, you’ll be quite busy for a time, I should think, helping Angel convalesce.”

Spike thought about what a pleasant patient Angel was bound to make and made a face.

 

***

 

Shagging a bloke when he had only one good arm was a bit challenging. But Spike enjoyed challenges. So did Xander, and by the time they surmounted this one, they were both panting and slightly sore and considerably knackered. “Bloody brilliant,” Spike said against Xander’s thick warm neck.

“Not so bad yourself, undead boyfriend.”

“Is that what I am?”

“You got a better word for it? I mean, we could register as domestic partners, I guess, but even California doesn’t let you have two of those, even if one of them’s not alive. Or we could move to..what? Massachusetts? Vermont? Not Iowa. Too Illinois-adjacent for me. And we could get married. Except again the problem with the three of us. And you and Angel not officially existing.”

“Don’t need paperwork, git. It’s only…boyfriend sounds a bit…permanent.”

Xander pushed him away a bit and frowned at him. “Were you planning on going somewhere?”

Spike bit his lip. “No. But now that we’ve beat those wankers, I thought perhaps….”

“What? That I was done with you? Come _on_, Spike. Don’t be a berk.”

“Sounds awful when you say that.”

“I could’ve called you something much worse. You know I didn’t want you for your fighting skills, and neither did Angel. I mean, they came in handy and all, but they’re only one of your many charms.”

Spike went up on one elbow and raised his eyebrow. “Oh?”

“But we are not going to explore the rest of the charms now because I’m wiped.” He pulled Spike down and sloppily kissed his forehead.

Spike sighed and nestled in Xander’s arm. Neither said anything for a bit, although Xander was thinking loudly. “Missing the pouf?” Spike said at last.

“Yeah. You too?”

“I expect so. Rather looking forward to him a wheelchair, though. I have a score or two to settle there.”

“Be nice.”

“Oi! I will. Just not _too_ nice.”

“Well, you do have a reputation to keep up.”

There was more silence, during which Spike decided to play with Xander’s sticky, soft cock. Xander didn’t seem to mind. The overworked organ even made a halfhearted attempt to rise to the occasion. Spike thought it might be nice to have it in his mouth like that, and he began to slither his way south.

But Xander stopped him with a hand on Spike’s bicep. “Spike?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you want to do now?”

“Again a question with an obvious answer, pet.”

“I meant in a more global sense. After we get out of bed, if we ever do. We’ve slain the dragon, metaphorically speaking.”

“Always more dragons, pet.”

Xander sighed. “Yeah. I know. But I’m really tired of hotels. I was thinking maybe it would be good to have a home base, at least. Someplace we can hang out while Angel heals.”

Spike propped himself up again, kissed the skin next to Xander’s empty eye. “Have someplace specific in mind?”

“Actually, yeah. I have this house. Well, I _had_ this house. Wolfram &amp; Hart stole it. But now that they’re gone, I bet I could get it back, at least with some of Angel’s money. It’s not fancy or anything, but it’s a one-story, so Angel could get around on wheels, and I could knock out the wall between the master bedroom and the room next door, make one really big room for a really big bed.”

“You expect the three of us could settle into your picket-fence neighborhood?”

“We could try.”

Spike thought about that for a few moments. About neighbors who barbecued and mowed their lawns and washed their cars on weekends. About paying property taxes and going grocery shopping and deciding between cable or satellite television. About people knocking on your door to sell you Girl Scout cookies or introduce you to Jesus Christ, and yard sales and patios and vacuum cleaners and dishwashers. It would be a very strange way for a vampire to live. Mad, really.

Spike smiled at Xander. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

 

_\---fin---  
_

__

  
[Epilogue and Notes](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/175710.html)   
_   
_

 

  
  



	24. </strong> Madhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[madhouse](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/madhouse), [spike/xander/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/xander/angel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Madhouse  
**Chapter:** Epilogue and Notes  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander/Angel  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Warnings:** non-con, mutilation  
**Summary:** After the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.  
**A/N:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.  
**Credits:** Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the art that inspired the fic, to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)   for the incredible posters, and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being the perfect beta.

Previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Madhouse&filter=all) 

**Huge thanks to** ** again to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) , to [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/) , and to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . And to you, for reading and commenting! **

_   
**Madhouse (Epilogue and Notes)**   
_

**Epilogue**

  
  
  
  
  
  


[   
  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000cygbb/)  
  
---  
  
**  
Notes for _Madhouse_  
**

 

You don’t need to read any of this to understand the story. But if you enjoy bits of trivia, you might like these notes.

 

Dragonyphoenix found this poem that suits the story so well!

 

**  
To One in Bedlam by Ernest Dowson  
(For Henry Davray)  
**

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,  
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;  
Those scentless wisps of straw , that miserably line  
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,

Pedant and pityful. O, how his rapt gaze wars  
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine  
Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,  
And make his melancholy germane to the stars?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,  
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;  
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,  
All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,  
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,  
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivous hours!

 

  
Chapter One  


 

There really is a Canton, Illinois, and it really does have a town square with a gazebo: [2187.phphttp://www.city-data.com/picfilesv/picv2](http://www.city-data.com/picfilesv/picv22187.php). I don’t know whether the square contains a statue of someone on a horse, but town squares often do, so I put one there.

 

The 1930’s-era Studebaker President was a beautiful car: [an_1931.jpghttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Studebaker_President_90X_Eight_7-Passenger_Sed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Studebaker_President_90X_Eight_7-Passenger_Sedan_1931.jpg) It could seat seven people.

 

  
Chapter Two  


 

Xander’s beloved house is in Tracy, California. Tracy is a small city about an hour east of San Francisco. [forniahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tracy,_Cali](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tracy,_California) According to Wikipedia, it’s mentioned in Jack Kerouac’s _On the Road_. Maybe that’s what inspired Xander to live there.

 

There really is delicious hot chocolate in Poland, at a chain called Wedel. [04http://www.wedelpijalnie.pl/english/home/2](http://www.wedelpijalnie.pl/english/home/204)

 

Sierra Leone, a country in West Africa, was once a British colony, so English is the official language and judges do, indeed, wear wigs. And red robes with white frilly collars. [uration-of-president-bai-koroma.jpghttp://blogs.reuters.com/global/files/2008/11/sierra-leonean-judges-attend-inaug](http://blogs.reuters.com/global/files/2008/11/sierra-leonean-judges-attend-inauguration-of-president-bai-koroma.jpg)

 

Sadly, child labor is a major problem in Nepal. I donate money to this organization, which helps: <http://www.nyof.org/>

 

A friend of mine recently went to Fez and sent me a beautiful picture of the tanneries there. He said they stink, though.

 

Tabatinga is a town in Brazil, near the borders of Peru and Colombia.

 

Marystown is in Newfoundland.

 

You do have to pay to use the WCs in Budapest, either by putting coins in a machine or giving them to an attendant.

 

Kolokani is in Mali.

 

After a conversation with my beta, I should point out that in California, kids often do play basketball in the streets, using portable hoops. At least, they sure do in my neighborhood!

 

  
Chapter Three  


 

The Illinois Asylum for the Incurable Insane really did exist in Bartonville, just outside Peoria. (I changed the name to _Incurably_; I think that reads better.) By the 1930’s, it was actually called Peoria State Hospital, but that’s boring. The real hospital actually used the cottage plan from the beginning.

<http://peoria-asylum.com/>

[  
http://www.prairieghosts.com/barton.html  
](http://www.prairieghosts.com/barton.html)

[  
oria_bartonville_aslyum_cem.htmhttp://www.usgennet.org/usa/il/state2/pe  
](http://www.usgennet.org/usa/il/state2/peoria_bartonville_aslyum_cem.htm)

 

Although I have exaggerated a little, especially with respect to Dr. Giles’s behavior, conditions in mental hospitals really were horrific in the 1930’s. Until modern medications for treating mental illness became available, the primary options available were restraints and, later, insulin or electric shock therapy and lobotomies.

 

[  
itals/Asylum/history-asylum.htmhttp://www.toddlertime.com/advocacy/hosp  
](http://www.toddlertime.com/advocacy/hospitals/Asylum/history-asylum.htm)

 

Schizophrenia was also known as dementia praecox until the late 1930’s. It was then viewed as hereditary and incurable. Schizophrenia is _not_ split personality. Its symptoms often include delusions, auditory hallucinations, and disorganized speech. It wouldn’t be unusual at all for a schizophrenic to believe that the government was controlling him through a chip in his head! The first drugs to treat schizophrenia weren’t developed until the 1950’s.

 

Today, fairly complex legal procedures are required before someone may be involuntarily committed to a mental hospital. In the 1930’s, signed statements from a doctor and policemen would probably have been plenty for a judge to sign the papers.

 

  
Chapter Four  


 

BevMo! is a chain of very large liquor stores in California.

 

Red Robin is a hamburger chain. The Banzai burger has pineapple and teriyaki sauce on it.

 

Seattle is on Elliott Bay. According to Wikipedia, the bay was named after one of the people on the Wilkes Expedition. It seems to me that it might just as easily been named after Wilkes himself, since he was the commanding officer.

 

Clovis is a suburb of Fresno, California.

 

  
Chapter Five  


 

Circumcision was widely practiced in the US by the 1930’s. It was considered to be promoting cleanliness and also preventing onanism, which is masturbation. In the 1930’s, many people still considered masturbation unhealthy and dangerous.

 

In the 1930’s, many states had compulsory sterilization laws that required the sterilization of the mentally retarded, mentally ill, criminals, people with physical disabilities, or women who were considered immoral. In some cases, Native Americans and African Americans were sterilized as well, often without being told what was happening. I read one estimate that over 60,000 Americans were sterilized under these laws. The primary force behind this was the eugenics movement, which claimed to want to improve humans through selective breeding. The Supreme Court permitted forced sterilization in a 1927 opinion in which Justice Holmes wrote:

 

It is better for all the world, if instead of waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime, or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind.

 

[  
http://www.eugenicsarchive.org/eugenics/  
](http://www.eugenicsarchive.org/eugenics/)

 

Straitjackets were widely used in the 1930s as a form of restraint. They were considered relatively humane, compared to the alternatives.

 

  
Chapter Six  


 

San Francisco International Airport is located south of the city itself, along the Bay. There are a bunch of hotels near the airport, some of which look out onto a lagoon that’s there.

 

Fruity Booty anal lube really exists. [oty-Anal/dp/B000FBQ17Khttp://www.amazon.com/Adam-Eve-Fruity-Bo](http://www.amazon.com/Adam-Eve-Fruity-Booty-Anal/dp/B000FBQ17K) It’s not to be confused with Fruity Booty snacks. [_code=329http://www.taquitos.net/snacks.php?snack](http://www.taquitos.net/snacks.php?snack_code=329)

 

Good Vibrations has 3 locations in the Bay Area: [d=store_locationshttp://www.goodvibes.com/content.jhtml?i](http://www.goodvibes.com/content.jhtml?id=store_locations)

I’ve never been there, but I keep meaning to go.

 

  
Chapter Seven  


 

Bethlem Royal Hospital began housing the mentally ill in the 14th Century. During the 17th and early 18th centuries people could pay to go on tours of the place. Conditions were awful. It’s where we get the term “bedlam” from.

[  
_id=1http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A2554157?s  
](http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A2554157?s_id=1)

[  
xhibits/bedlam/bedlam.htmhttp://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/archive/e  
](http://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/archive/exhibits/bedlam/bedlam.htm)

 

When I was in grad school, I saw _Titicut Follies_, a documentary made in 1967 at Bridgewater State Hospital. What I saw there inspired much of my description of life in the Asylum.

 

Robby has Down Syndrome. In the 1930’s, people with Down were usually institutionalized. Because of the health problems people with Down have, in the 1930’s they typically didn’t live to their mid-20’s.

 

  
Chapter Eight  


 

Of course, telephones existed in the 1930’s, but lots of people in more rural areas didn’t have them and would have relied on telegrams for emergencies.

 

The Santa Fe Super Chief began its run in 1936. It went from LA to Chicago in about 40 hours. It was considered the most luxurious rail travel in the US at the time. The drawing rooms were the fanciest compartments.

[  
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Chief  
](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Chief)

 

Latif’s restaurant is in Turlock, California. In our world, I think it didn’t open until the 1950’s.

 

Willow and Xander have landed in California’s Central Valley during the dust bowl years. Life was really hard then. Read _The Grapes of Wrath_ to get a sense of it.

 

Hitler, obviously, was not killed in the 1930s. But Japan did invade China.

 

In our world, of course, Amelia Earhart didn’t make it.

 

Shirley Temple was almost cast as Dorothy in _The Wizard of Oz._

 

  
Chapter Nine  


 

There are several methods by which men may be castrated. Chemical castration, which involves giving certain drugs, isn’t permanent, and wasn’t used in the 1930s. All the other methods are icky. [tionhttp://wiki.bmezine.com/index.php/Castra](http://wiki.bmezine.com/index.php/Castration)

 

  
Chapter Ten  


 

Most of the radio shows and movies mentioned in this chapter are real ones. I made these up: _The Adventures of Captain Billings_. _Four Nights in Constantinople_. _The Great Machine. _Tickets did cost about 25 cents.

 

The mid-30s Nash Ambassador looked like this: [mbassador_Six_4-Door_Sedan_1937.jpghttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nash_A](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nash_Ambassador_Six_4-Door_Sedan_1937.jpg)

 

Rent for a house like theirs probably would have run roughly $25 per month.

 

Queen Anne houses in the US could be very elaborate. Here’s what the Carson mansion in Eureka, California, looks like: [_Mansion_Eureka_California.jpghttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Carson](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Carson_Mansion_Eureka_California.jpg)

 

Nurse Ratched was, of course, Randle McMuprhy’s nemesis in _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_. She got strangled, too, also with disastrous results.

 

I made up Wild Country brand of cigarettes.

 

  
Chapter Eleven  


 

A lobotomy is the removal or destruction of part of the frontal lobes of the brain. The frontal lobes are responsible for much of our personality, the ability to plan and control behavior, and long-term memory acquisition. Lobotomies were first formally studied in the 1930s as a method of treating mental illness by   
António Egas Moniz, who eventually won the Nobel Prize for his work. In the U.S., the procedure was popularized by Walter Freeman. Originally, he would drill holes in the skull, but in 1945 he developed a technique using an icepick inserted through the eye socket. Freeman traveled the country, convincing people that lobotomies were a good treatment. Almost 40,000 people had been lobotomized in the US by the 1950s.

 

The effects of lobotomies on patients varied. Some were permanently and completely incapacitated, while others were able to lead a relatively normal life. At the least, it tended to flatten patients’ emotions.

 

  
Chapter Twelve  


 

I made up Fischer’s Finest brand beer.

 

The brand name 7-Eleven began to be used in 1946.

 

Palmer House Hotel was built in the 1920s and still exists, now as part of the Hilton chain. It was one of the fanciest hotels in Chicago. [ehttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palmer_Hous](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palmer_House)

 

There is no such film as _Sagebrush Riders._ However, Joel McCrea was in many films, including Westerns. He was in six films with Barbara Stanwyck. In the poster [](http://sentine.livejournal.com/profile)[**sentine**](http://sentine.livejournal.com/)  made of Xander for this story, Xander is wearing Joel McCrea’s suit.

 

  
Chapter Thirteen  


 

Silk_labyrinth told me about the Blue Top Motel, a real motor court motel near Iowa City. Maybe that’s where our heroes stayed.

 

  
Chapter Fourteen  


 

_  
The Grapes of Wrath, Rebecca,  
_  
and _Citadel_ were all bestsellers in the late 1930s.

 

Amelia lives in Clarendon Hills. [ills,_Illinoishttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarendon_H](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarendon_Hills,_Illinois)

 

  
Chapter Sixteen  


 

Merced means, of course, “mercy.” The city of Merced is in a rural area in California’s Central Valley, about 130 miles southeast of San Francisco. There are a lot of cows in the area, mainly dairy cows.

 

A photo of the 63 ½ Galaxie fastback: [3glaxieturq.htmlhttp://www.championautomotive.net/ford/6](http://www.championautomotive.net/ford/63glaxieturq.html)

 

Spike’s snarky comment about _all being well in this, the best of all possible worlds_, was stolen from Voltaire’s _Candide_. Voltaire was being kind of snarky, too.

 

Quark and Principal Snyder were, of course both played by Armin Shimerman.

 

  
Chapter Eighteen  


 

Iapetos was the son of Uranus and the father of Prometheus and Atlas. He was the Titan of mortal life.

[  
thology)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iapetus_(my  
](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iapetus_\(mythology\))

[  
tmlhttp://www.theoi.com/Titan/TitanIapetos.h  
](http://www.theoi.com/Titan/TitanIapetos.html)

 

  
Chapter Nineteen  


 

In-N-Out is a California hamburger chain. It has a minimalist menu and good milkshakes. Many Californians crave their food. <http://www.in-n-out.com/default.asp>

 

  
Chapter Twenty  


 

Corporations are, indeed, legally treated as people in several respects. In _Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission_ (2010), the Supreme Court held that corporations have First Amendment rights.

 

Inverness is a tiny town in Marin County, not far from Point Reyes National Seashore. Our crew is staying at the Motel Inverness, which is on Tomales Bay. <http://motelinverness.com/> There are, indeed, many deer in the area, as well as cougars and coyotes and, at Point Reyes, tule elk.

 

  
Chapter Twenty-One  


 

“Gay” as a term for homosexuals was used at least as early as the 1920s, but didn’t become widely used in that context until the 1950s or 60s.

 

Edith Wharton never wrote _The Empty Room_ in our world.

 

Joliet housed the Illinois State Prison from 1958-2002. I went to preschool very close-by. Perhaps that explains things.

 

  
Chapter Twenty-Two  


 

The Viper is a very tall, very fast roller coaster with loops. I would never go on it, but my husband loves it.

 

The gang ends up at Point Reyes National Seashore.

 

  
Chapter Twenty-Three  


 

Want to read some Catullus? <http://www.negenborn.net/catullus/>

 

 

 

 

  
  



End file.
